


The Winter Sea

by a_different_equation



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: A soft epilogue because they and we deserve it, Angst with a Happy Ending, Case Fic, Day At The Beach, Epistolary, Family Secrets, First Kiss, First Time, Forbidden Love, Friends to Lovers, John Watson's Childhood, M/M, No Thomas Hardy was hurt in making the fic, Parenthood, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Season/Series 04, Retirement, Seaside, Sherlock Holmes is a Secret Romantic, Story within a Story, Victorian John Watson, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-03-10 05:00:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 23,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18931771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_different_equation/pseuds/a_different_equation
Summary: Dr. John H. Watson's past is Sherlock Holmes' most important case.





	1. A Family Mystery

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gardnerhill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gardnerhill/gifts).



> Hello and welcome to my new Johnlock multi-chapter fic!
> 
> This story is completely written and beta read by notjustamumj. I sent in an earlier draft of it to "Holmestice" as a gift for gardnerhill. "The Winter Sea" follows mostly "The Adventure of Sherrington Hall", even as a reader who might enjoy it prior, already the beginning is different :) 
> 
> For the setting: Imagine your Victorian Husbands in any universe you like. People read it as GRANADA!Holmes, other as Ritchie!Holmes, it works very well as an ACD pastiche (my intention) as well as set in John Taylor's short story collection (you probably know the audiobook narrated by Benedict Cumberbatch). And if you thought: "The Abominable Bride" was good, but I wished the "man out of his time" would be developed further, also I wanted my Johnlock happy ending, "The Winter Sea" might be work as an extention of it too.
> 
> It's an original case, and if you expect some Moriarty plot, return button. Same goes for Mary or whoever, there's an female OC but she's basically a local Mrs Hudson because she sadly couldn't show up in (fictional) Sherrington.
> 
> Sherrington as well as Sherrington Hall are fictional. Yet, the English Coast in Dorset is very much real. Basically, "The Winter Sea" spin off from binge-watching "Broadchurch", planning my summer trip to said part of UK, and enjoying casefic and wanting to write one myself. Also, the lovely prompt by gardnerhill.
> 
> Thanks to alll the people being enthusiastic on tumblr. No Thomas Hardy was hurt in process of the fic ;) The Game is On :)

_It is my belief, Watson, founded upon my experience,_

_that the lowest and vilest alleys in London do not present a more dreadful record of sin_

_than does the smiling and beautiful countryside._

(Arthur Conan Doyle: The Adventure of The Copper Beeches)

 

 

**Sherrington, 2020**

There was a house on the little hill near the cliffs of Dorset. Today, it was simply the home of the Watson-Holmes-family; however, the inhabitants of the village nearby knew the history of Sherrington Hall.

Sherrington Hall had lived a sheltered life, closed off for decades. There had been whispers of ghosts, family mysteries and one or two men lost in time. These days, there was laughter, shouting and life to be heard from afar.

“John, it’s an experiment!”

“Sherlock, I swear to God, if I did not love you...”

“But you do...”

Oh, yes, love had found Sherrington Hall, or maybe, it had been the other round? Who cared?

A little girl cared very much because she was a storyteller like her daddy, and her papa always taught her to look for clues and never took anything for granted.

Therefore, it was only a matter of time until Rosamund “Rosie” Watson-Holmes asked her fathers one night, “Tell me how we ended up here.”

 

***

**Sherrington, 1920**

Most people believed that Holmes retired alone to Sussex.

This assumption carefully crafted by myself was incorrect on two counts. The first was rather obvious, as Holmes himself had said prominently once that he would be lost without his Boswell. We shared everything as we had done for decades in 221b Baker Street. Our partnership was the one fixed point in a changing age, and while the world was on fire, we two remained; however, and this was the second wrong assumption: Holmes and I lived not in Sussex but at a lovely seaside town called Sherrington in Dorset.

Moreover, we probably would not have retired here together if not for the tale I privately call _The Winter Sea_.

 

***

**Sherrington, 1903**

One fine morning, as I sat at the breakfast table in our sitting room, the door opened and Holmes entered. He was wearing a thick coat, as it was January and one of the coldest seasons since we had started to cohabitate 221b Baker Street.

“Watson! How are you feeling today?”

“I can’t complain, Holmes. The weather is chilling to the bones, however, is it not?”

“It is not warm, I will concede, and yet the weather has its benefits.”

“Benefits, Holmes?”

“Elementary, Watson. This weather means that our dear Londoners are thinking twice if they really want to leave the house or engage in pointless conversation. It is wonderfully calm and quiet outside. Oh, I hope that the temperature drops even further. Could spring not be delayed till summer...?”

I nearly composed a heated reply when I spotted the gleaming eyes of Sherlock Holmes. I played along. “Well then, I propose that you take another turn  in the delightful cold and wait until I am finished to join you for a nice stroll through the park. What do you think, Holmes?”

“Touché, Watson.” He did not remark further and instead took a seat at our breakfast table, then proceeded to  pour himself a cup of coffee. “Come to think about it, old chap, I prefer the culinary talents of our Mrs Hudson over a solitary walk.”

We ate in silence. Yet, I could not help but feel Holmes’ gaze on me repeatedly.

“Holmes?” He did not react. I hesitated a second and addressed him again, “Holmes?”

“Yes, yes, Watson. What’s the matter with you?”

“What’s the matter with _me_? You are the one that looks as if I am one of your experiments gone awry.”

“Watson, does the name _Sherrington_ ring any bells?”

“Sherrington?” I pondered over it for a brief moment before answering, “no, I don’t think it does.”

“Curious. And what do you think about a _vanishing room_?”

“A vanishing room? Holmes, are you pulling my leg?” Irritated, I intended to leave the  breakfast table and make my way back to my room.

However, Holmes was faster, as he grabbed my hands and repeated urgently, “ _Watson! The vanishing room_.”

“Holmes, I don’t know what’s got into you today, but I demand that you let me go.” A beat later, I added, less heated but still sharp, “We’ll meet at the door in ten minutes.” On my way out, a softly uttered, “Calm yourself, man,” slipped out, even though I was not sure of whom I was referring to, my flatmate or to myself at that moment.

 

***

 

It was snowing, although spring was at the door, but it was not unusual for the British metropolis. The light had changed; it was no longer clear and bright, but interspersed with shadow colours, which clouded the mood. Thick snowflakes trickled from a gray-shrouded sky, turning the streets into a true winterland.

Soon, we reached St. James’ Park, opened the gates and entered. Arm-in-arm we walked one of the countless paths. As Holmes had predicted, there was no other soul in sight.

The trees were still without any buds, swaying like consumptive cripples in the wind, and casting dark shadows. Fine hoarfrost lay on their branches and twigs, which looked like bony arms that stretched out after us. To cut it short: the weather brought out my poetic nature. Though it might have been simply the aftermath of the severe fever that had plagued me until recently still clouded my view. Yet, I could not help but to sense a feeling of foreshadowing, of coming doom.

Just when I decided to catalogue my surroundings as what they surely were - tricks of my mind - my companion said: “Come on, Watson, I will show you something.” Holmes dashed away in the direction of some bushes, leaving me behind, bereft and cold. Some moments later, he reappeared, presenting something to me. “Look, Watson. What do you make of this?”

“Holmes, this is some common fern.”

“Fern. Exactly. And...?”

“And what, Holmes?”

That man had the nerve to look at me as if I was the one who did not make sense. “Holmes, what in God’s name is going on? What is the meaning of all this? Vanishing rooms and all that. If I did not know you as well as I do, I would question your sanity.”

His face showed surprise and interest as he fixed me with another stare, one I knew well enough, as it was normally reserved for the most intriguing of corpses. “Extraordinary, truly extraordinary.”

“Holmes! I demand that you speak.”

“Not now Watson, we’ll speak at home. I need to ponder over a problem or two first, and your presence, good doctor, is most distracting, to be frank.”

I stomped off.

 

***

 

**Sherrington, 1920**

Looking back, I could only shake my head at our blindness, oh, what two fools we had been, and for quite some time, I might add.

Holmes and I had started sharing lodgings in 1881, and by the time the events of _The Winter Sea_ occurred in 1903, we had known each other for more than two decades.

221b had been a comfort and a safe harbour when I returned from the Afghan campaign, even most common folks would have laughed out loud by that admission, as Holmes was anything but a balm for distressed nerves. Yet, it proved correct what someone had once said about me: I had needed exactly that, a man who kept me on the toes, challenged me day in day out (and not only my patience), and who had given me purpose in life.

I had been distraught when he had seemed to have met his ends at Reichenbach, similar to his feelings towards me marrying Mary Morstan. Back then, he had never let it slip, but as the years had grew, I had sensed it but never felt brave enough to address it.

When the turn of the century had approached - I remember it as if it had been yesterday - I had become agitated. _Something must happen now or never_ , this and similar thoughts had plagued my mind. Holmes and I had been both middle-aged men, accustomed to each other, the best of friends, and if it had not been for the lack of certain aspects (and the scandal), I would have been so bold to call it a marriage.

Sadly, we toasted the 20th century, as we had welcomed each new year and it seemed as if nothing would ever happen between us.

Then the coldest of winters had come upon us at the turn from 1902 to 1903, and I, the doctor, tended to all my patients until I had become rather ill myself. Believe me, I wish that I had some adventurous tale to relay, some treasure hunt in the Thames or a hostage situation involving a child and I succumbed in due to some heroics on my part, but it had been a simple equation of fatigue, overlooking my own health and bad luck. A tale as old as time, and as I was getting on in years and my past – partly unknown to myself at the time – was paying tribute, I was bedridden for quite some time. Further, doctors made the worst of patients.

I am telling all of this – while having still a rambling tendency as if I were a young lad, narrating all and nothing about the events at school – to highlight that my confusion about the situation was fueled by two points: my still weakened state and my – so I assumed – unrequited love for Holmes.

 

***

 

**Sherrington, 1903**

I had just shed my coat, ordered a cup of tea from Mrs Hudson and made myself comfortable in my chair by the fireplace, when Holmes returned to Baker Street.

He greeted me as if nothing was amiss with the annoying line of inquiry: “Watson, please, think once more: Does the _vanishing room_ really means nothing to you?” At least, he seemed to be more aware that I demanded an explanation, or the alternative would be a punch to his face. After all, he was not the only one who had picked up boxing in his younger years. “Well,” he started, turning to the window overlooking Baker Street, so I could no longer observe his expressive face. “Watson, to cut it short: during the peak of your recent fever, you rather, to be quite honest, seduced me.”

“Seduced you?” My voice wavered between horror and alarm.

Holmes interrupted me, and continued, while still not turning to face me. “You told me from the most bizarre event in a small town called Sherrington. You stayed there some thirty years ago during your teenage years at your grandfather’s home.”

Whenever my family affairs were mentioned, a fear crept up my spine. Holmes remained silent for a second, and then he went to the fireplace, and lit his pipe. Still he had not turned his gaze upon me. Yet, now, I was slightly grateful. I did not trust my body at the moment.

Thank God for small mercies as I was still sitting when Holmes dropped the bombshell: “You begged me to take your case while you were ill. I promised you that I would.”

Holmes went to his desk and – from the sounds of it – opened the secret compartment. Whatever he hid in there, it was important to him, potentially dangerous, and apparently, my case had now fallen  into that category. He came to me, an unrevealing mask, and dropped some papers in front of me.

I could barely rescue my buttered toast.

The notes appeared to be a diary of sorts, read as followed:

_ January 12th _

_I have stayed vigilant at Watson’s side. The fever is getting worse. Mrs Hudson and I try to make him as comfortable as possible. Over and over the word, “Sherrington.” He insists upon his innocence. This time, he adds, “he was gone, vanished, and gone, all gone.” Watson continues to be agitated, turning from one side to the other, repeatedly. At last, he falls into a deep slumber, exhausted._

_ January 13th _

_“Take the fern away, quickly, the fern!” Watson looks at me, calls me by my name, as if he means me, knows that I am here, that it is I he needs. I nod and promise him that I will do it. He goes back to sleep._

_ January 14th _

_Mrs Hudson brings a broth. When she reaches to set it down on his bedsit dresser, Watson wakes up suddenly. Without any warming, he raises and almost thrashes the bowl to the floor. “Have you seen him? Oh God, do you see? He was here, in this room!” After a second, he continues, clearly agitated, “I can’t do anything, but I beg you, Holmes, please, help me.” He boxes in the air as if an enemy was attacking him. At last, he is defeated, falls back and loses consciousness._

_ January 15th _

_The patient’s health is improving. He is able to conduct some small conversation. After five hours, he wakes up and inquires about his wardrobe. I sense that something was amiss. I try to calm him  and remind him that he will not go outside at this time of the night. Watson acts as if I am the fool, insisting that there is an important meeting, and how could Ihave forgotten that? I play along, hoping not to agitate him further. I ask about the time, and he replies that the meeting would be at 10, and how could I have forgotten that as well? Apparently, I am the one asking all the stupid questions. I suspect that he confuses me with someone else. “And what is the meeting about?” I will play the fool for Watson if it helps him. “An eye for an eye.” “And where will this all take place?” “In the room, where else?” All of a sudden, he rushes from the room. He wears a long white nightshirt and he resembles a ghost in the fading light. I follow him into our sitting room. Hovering close by, hoping to catch him in case he stumbles. His screaming startles  me. “Where is it? Where is the room? Where?” He fixes his gaze upon me, his look forlorn, and his face fearful, his hair in frenzy. “Do something. Save him, please, I beg you, Holmes, save me!” I try to reassure him. I lead him back to his bedroom, hovering closer still. He mumbles roughly, “the room, it’s gone. The vanishing room.” It takes long hours to coax him into sleep with a gentle old tune I thought I had forgotten long ago._

 

I put down the notes. My cheeks were burning. I could not yet bring myself to look him in the face. After clearing my throat, I asked hesitantly, “Why haven’t you said something? And your odd behaviour today…?”

“Was to trigger your memory,” he concluded.

“I don’t remember any of it.”

 

***

**Sherrington, 1920**

We still own the notes. From time to time, I take the box  out from its compartment. It is still the same box, a similar one I got in my youth from my grandfather, the one I kept all the treasures from my boyhood. I never knew it existed until I came back to Sherrington almost half a century later and rediscovered it. It was quite a time capsule, and in a way, the complete trip was a walk down memory lane.

I proved to be a far less conductor of light as he had a habit of calling me in cases past., Here, I happened to trundle in the dark for far too long.

The notes remind me to be kinder to myself,  that I was still recovering, but concede that if I had been more observant, I could have seen the outcome all along in those first few lines.

 

***

**Sherrington, 1903**

Holmes had left Baker Street without further notice, so all I could do was to wait for his return. I tried to relax by the warming fire and indulged in Mrs Hudson’s baked delicacies. The woman was a treasure! She was clearly relieved that I was still among the living, though she did not make mention of my recovery in so many words her baking spoke volumes.

It was already growing dark when the doorbell rang.

Shortly afterwards, Mrs Hudson announced a Mr Jones. I wanted to protest, but she informed me that Mr Holmes had instructed her to let this particular man up, disregarding the hour.

Mr Jones was a middle-aged man, perhaps ten years my senior. Unlike me, he was wearing a wedding ring. He was well dressed, painstakingly so. His whole demeanour led me suspect him to be a secretary or a valet. He greeted me politely, and his speech pattern, confirmed my hypothesis.

“My name is Dr. Watson. I take it that you’re waiting for Mr Holmes?”

“Indeed, sir.” He looked at me, once, twice, a third time. Mr Jones clearly fought against his training as well as common decency, but lost it. “Apologies, sir, but may I ask you something?”

I nodded.

“I don’t wish to appear rude, but what was your name again?”

Surely, it would have been in my right to be affronted. Instead, I decided to take it with humour.

“Watson, Dr. John Watson.”

He looked at me as if he had seen a ghost. I poured him a stiff drink and placed it into his hands. He certainly seemed as if he needed one. His constitution restored, Mr Jones said quietly, “My apologies, once more... But I thought...”

Another pause, therefore I coaxed him on, “What was it you were thinking, Mr Jones?”

“I thought that John Watson was dead.”

Before I could inquire further – and I certainly had some questions – Holmes appeared.

“Ah, Mr Jones. So good that you could join us. You have met Dr. Watson already, I presume.”

I denied it. Let Holmes sort out this mess, I thought.

“Watson, this is David Jones. His father was once  the private valet at your grandfather’s estate in Sherrington. He could recall you, even if you do not remember him. Until recently, Mr Jones believed you to be dead or at least severely ill. He will give us the full report about the events in a moment. Before doing so, can we offer you another brandy, Mr Jones? Or something else?”

“No, thank you, Mr Holmes.”

“Then, pray begin, Mr Jones. Do not leave anything out. Every detail could be crucial.”

“Well, the event happened thirty years ago. As Mr Holmes has said already, my father used to be the private valet to your grandfather at Sherrington Hall. He had been with the family since his youth. Your grandfather, maybe you can recall this, Doctor Watson, was a solitary sort, quite particular in his ways. However, as his health was in decline and it became evident that he would only have a few months to live, he invited his family to stay with him on the estate for a weekend. Included in the party were John and Henry Watson, the sons of his youngest daughter Anne, who sadly been deceased by then already.”

I could only stare at him.

Mr Jones continued his tale. “As I said prior, your grandfather had what one might call a difficult relationship with his family. In the beginning, he announced many conditions to his inheritance. Therefore, it should not come as a surprise that only Dr. Watson’s brother Henry and their cousin, Walter, were willing to meet said conditions. Then, all of a sudden, the old man changed his mind. Over dinner on Sunday night, he said that he would make you, Dr. Watson, his heir – without any further stipulations. It was rather a shock to the others, which seemed to amuse him a great deal. Before my father left him to his own devices that night, he had ordered his best brandy and an excellent cigarette. The last time he was seen that night, he sat in his favourite armchair in front of the fireplace, quite at ease. Someone later reported that they kept thinking that he looked as someone who awaited a catastrophe and had made his peace with it.”

“And what happened before breakfast the next morning?” Our visitor looked at my companion stunned. Holmes smirked, clearly enjoying that he could surprise him. “Mr Jones, the stage was set. Everything pointed at it that something would happen before the family gathered together again.”

“You’re right, of course, Mr Holmes. Breakfast should have been at a quarter to nine. However, it occurred fast that John, Dr. Watson, was missing. First, no one suspected anything sinister but when he had not showed up for elevenses, a search party was set up.”

“How long until you heard of his fate?”

“Ten days, Mr Holmes. It took ten days, during which Dr. Watson’s grandfather had already been passed away from natural causes. His condition had been critical prior and the disappearance of his grandson had been too much for him, or so I was told. It was quite some eventful days, as you can easily imagine, and in particular, when it happened in such a small town as Sherrington. Then a letter arrived that assured that John Watson was alive but severely injured after a fall. You have to remember that Sherrington is close to the sea and the weather turns fast, so an accident was accepted as gospel. Especially, when taking into consideration that you had only spent some few summer vacations at the estate in your youth. Apparently, you were an adventurous young man, talking about joining the army in a year’s time, therefore, it seemed plausible. The letter ended that it wasn't expected that you would recover fully and probably would die young.”

Mr Jones as well as Holmes looked at me. I was perplexed. Nothing made any sense. Surely, that could not have really happened. This could not be my life.

I started to laugh hysterically I had to admit. So much so that I could hardly breathe. I sensed Holmes near me – was he touching me for a second? – and somehow I ended up in my armchair and some brandy passed down my throat. His very own grey blanket, knitted by Mrs Hudson, had found its way around my body, warming me up. I felt dizzy.

“What should we do now, my dear Watson?”

I pulled the blanket closer around me. “I guess that you have plotted out something already, Holmes. What happened to Mr Jones?” I said.

“On his way back home, I assume. Mr Jones has told us everything of importance. He is hardly relevant now. Enough of him, Watson. Rest, dear man.” Before falling asleep, exhausted, I believe I overheard Holmes’ mumble at my ear, “The case is a complex one. But we shall solve it, John.”

 

 

tbc


	2. A Trip to the Countryside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi & welcome back to "The Winter Sea"!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has left comments and/or kudos. It means a lot. When you're writing a multi-chapter fic (current word count: 17,600 words), then you need alllll the encouragement that you can get. As a non-native it isn't an easy task to compose a storywith four (!) storylines that are linked. However, as my marvellous beta notjustmomj said: you love the characters. 
> 
> I love "The Winter Sea" and the 2nd chapter which features one of my favourite lines of the fic: "defending his partner's honour online by deducing anonymous internet trolls in customer reviews" which is IMO such a Sherlockian thing to do. How dare they critizes HIS John :D
> 
> Hope you enjoy "A Trip to the Countryside"!

_ There is a condition worse than blindness,  _

_ and that is seeing something that isn’t there. _

(Thomas Hardy)

 

 

**Sherrington, 1870**

The sleepy coastal town of Sherrington in Dorset was preparing to wake up for the summer season, but tonight nothing stirred. 

The crisp, clean night followed a hot, cloudless day. There was a full moon and stars pricked the sky. Waves dragged and crashed as the petrol-black sea retreated from the beach. The Jurassic cliffs above glowed amber, as though still radiating the heat they had absorbed during the day. In the harbour, boats bobbed and masts swayed in the shadows. The church on the hill was unlit; the rich jewel colours of its stained-glass windows had dulled to a uniform satin black. At the other end of town, a bit outside, far from the madding crowd, Sherrington Hall was in darkness. 

John “Johnny” Watson was two miles away, shivering. He was sixty feet above the sea, his toes inches from the cliff edge. A sharp gust whipped his hair into little needles that jabbed at his face. Tears chased down his cheeks and the wind ripped the cries from his lips. Below him was a sheer drop. He was afraid to look down. He was even more afraid to look back.

The sea breeze swept through the town until it reached his grandfather’s estate. His family, estranged and alien to him, slept on. 

On the cliff top, John closed his eyes.

 

***

 

**Sherrington, 1903**

When I sat at the breakfast table the next morning, I was still very much adrift. 

I had spilled some coffee already and I knew that at least Mrs Hudson was worried that I did not enjoy the well-boiled eggs as I normally do. 

My mind was on the events of last night. All I could recall from my later restless slumber was some dream-like memory of a symbol, which might have been a Gordian knot, but I was not sure. 

What had happened in Sherrington Hall all those years ago? 

What role had I in this mystery? 

And why could I not remember anything? 

Holmes’ voice brought me back to the present. “Watson, would you care to join me to a little trip to the countryside, old boy?”

“I’m not sure, Holmes. Do you think it would be wise in regards to my health? Dr. Moore had urged me to avoid any stress.” I knew I was stalling and Holmes surely saw through my rambling as well. On the one hand I wanted to find the underlying cause of it all, but on the other, I feared what we might find. I had to trust the detective as well as my dearest companion to have my best intentions in mind.

“We’ll see. I promise I’ll do my uttermost to make you as comfortable as possible.”

While I knew all too well that following Holmes on another adventure would be far from action-free, I would never let him go on his own. Further, to see something else than our rooms, after being bedridden for weeks, was tempting. I was a country boy, and even as I apparently suppressed parts of my past, some clear air seemed exactly what the doctor would order. 

We took the train at nine to the countryside and reached our destination around noon: the lovely seaside town of Sherrington. My companion had  found us lodgings in a local inn with the charming if somewhat grotesque name of  _ The Jolly Bulldog _ . There, we ate some dinner, a hearty stew, and ordered a pint. For quite a while, we talked quite amiably. The sun was shining. It was rather idyllic. 

The minute I wanted to utter aloud, that this was a surprisingly nice holiday, a man interrupted us. It was David Jones once more. Holmes asked him to sit with us. Soon I learned that the man had been instructed by Holmes to investigate my grandfather’s home because he had brought the blueprint of it with him. Overlooking them in private, I suspected that Holmes hoped that my memory would be triggered but it was not the case. Tired and more than frustrated I decided to take a nap.

Holmes, engrossed in the notes, did not so much as look up when I abruptly announced my intentions to retire.

 

***

 

**Sherrington, 2020**

Two miles down the coast, a man stared at the dissolving blue horizon. He was wearing a woolen jumper, of cashmere as old habits die slow, but for a man like him, it was as if he were wearing jogging pants. The colour was a deep green, it had been a present. The jeans clung to his hips as if they were a second skin. Hiking boots were a new addition, but a scarf and in particular the prominent Belstaff completed the altered but no less stylish look. 

Sherlock Holmes had never been one for the sea, or so he had claimed but with standing so close to it, he recalled the adventure stories of his youth and his wish to become a pirate at one point. He could smile at the memories of Redbeard now, focusing on the good days, of playing pretend for enjoyment only, of dressing up, of having all his siblings and his first best friend at his side Toby was their dog now, a real one, no hound but a true family member.

Where he stood, there was no fence. He could look over the edge, but he did not want to get too close and tempt the vertigo. Sherlock Holmes, the man who had invented his own peculiar  profession a lifetime ago was not suddenly afraid of heights, but after the events of Moriarty as well of Mary, he had grown more observant, and concerned for the good doctor’s feelings. Love was a great motivator, one that  kept them alive and together in the end.

“You want to see this or not?”John’s voice interrupted his reverie, and the tone showed his partner’s uneasiness. There was something in his eyes… the game was on.

Reluctantly, Sherlock Holmes turned towards the direction of the beach. Sherlock hated walking on the beach, or so he claimed, very loudly, whenever Rosie dragged them here. 

In the beginning, it had been the odd weekend. Then, it progressed into summer holidays. In the end, it became a permanent move from London to the English coast. Which meant that Sherlock Holmes had to endure sand practically everyday, at least, until Rosie would go to the local school. No private schooling, certainly no boarding school for her, John had promised that Sherlock would never be lonely anymore in his vows. Hell would freeze over before Rosie would become the loner that he had been for thirty years, before he had been fortunate enough to meet her father.. 

Here, no one knew him. Some knew John apparently. He could deduce it but John hated it and also, where would be the fun in it? Sherlock would not admit it at gun-point (but John knew it somehow) but he enjoys his partner tales. His writing has improved since his early blogging days. Sherlock could almost admit that he liked the first published cases of their career. It was John's retirement project, and Sherlock showed his interest and gratitude by providing him with the newest technical equipment  (truthfully via Mycroft but the thought certainly counted) and defending his partner's honour online by deducing anonymous internet trolls in customer reviews. 

Overall, it was quite nice. But he could still sulk and be a grumpy old man. After all, you never know where you are with sand. It shifted and tricked you, slowed you down. In addition, this beach, of all beaches, still seemed to hate him as much as he hated it, the coarse sand sucking at his feet. 

His focus switched to Harbour Cliff, and he knew that when looking further still - and if he had x-ray vision, he could have spotted Sherrington Hall. Bloody Dorset, how he wished to hate it. 

Sherlock heard their daughter's laughter and glee. He looked up, his eyes finally meeting his husband’s. Both men smiled. He could never hate it though, he just could not bring  himself to utter the words, "I love it, I really do, all of it, our life, Rosie, you," so easily. It was easier to swear and to hear the fond comment "bloody drama queen" or "you wanker" instead. It was their language, and at last, it was their shared life.

“I was here before, on this beach,” John said some time later. The two men had found their bench overlooking the sea. The sunset was mesmerizing. 

Rosie, their daughter, was asleep in the house. Or so their fathers hoped as it was well past her bedtime. His brother and his partner were babysitting. It had taken a while after the events John had published in a censored version on the blog as  _ The Final Problem _ until both could  trust Mycroft again. For months it seemed that Sherlock Holmes had taken the Watson family for his own. John and Rosie were his family, and 221b Baker Street their home once more. Then, it all changed once more, a new adventure, one might say, and the three of them had ended up here last month for good. Here, in Dorset on the English coast where apparently John Watson had been before.

“I came here as a kid. We had a tent on some campsite near the cliffs. I tried looking for it when I first came.”

Sherlock tried to picture him as a young boy, blond hair and blue eyes, toothy-smile and more carefree. “You remember your holiday in Sherrington?”

John nodded. “Didn’t remember it until we moved out here. It freaked me out as you can recall Those bloody cliffs are still the same. I used to sit under them, to escape from my family.” He cleared his throat. “In particular, my sister Harry.” His attention shifted to the horizon. “They spent three days sniping and shouting. The third day, I sat here, all day, on this beach, right into the night. Thinking, I’m not going to have a family. When I got back they were livid. They had been out looking for me. They didn’t think to look on the bloody beach, mind.”

The two men faced the horizon together, listening to the drag and deposit of shingle in the waves. It was a repetitive, hypnotic sound that brought about an eerie peace deep within them. London had always felt like the middle of the world to them. Right now, Harbour Cliff Beach felt like the edge of it. 

At forty-five, Sherlock Holmes had never felt so alive.

 

***

 

**Sherrington, 1903**

Sometime later, I estimated the time to be around three, Holmes shook me from my rest.

“Watson, rise up, dear fellow. Do you feel up to a short trip?” He had already put on his outerwear and I saw that he had his iconic hat in hand as well. He was ready to go; the game was afoot.

What else should I do but follow him? If a man has not even so much as his own memories, how could he have his own agenda? Yes, I was in a rather dark place during those days in Sherrington. I could put it down to a lingering effect of the severe illness that I had battled, but I was a medical man enough to know that it ran  far deeper. Yet, I was too close to see it rationally.  

I felt stiff after the nap. Apparently, we had brought the weather from London with us: Sherrington’s High Street shimmered in the early afternoon haze and everyone – save for  myself – was in a good mood. The sky was cloudless. I was not sure if I was glad to be back, not only because I did not know what would await us at the estate; it also did not feel right to be here, to be back at my supposed home. This was not John Watson’s street anymore. 

For having never been here before, Holmes appeared to have a lot of local knowledge. Normally, I would admire his dedication to the case. More than likely, I would have praised him by now if this was any other day, or any other case. Instead, I felt irritated. I should be the one guiding Holmes for once, I should introduce him to my past, I should not be the one who followed at best and dragged around like a chess piece in some elaborate game of his at worst. Never before in our long partnership have I found us on such unequal footing. It was distressing, and if I dare say it, heartbreaking to my mind.

My companion, unaware of it all, of course, had closed his eyes, every so often he breathed in the air. All of a sudden, the smell of the ocean was eminent. 

The fresh air did not clear my head: if anything, I felt worse. The shallow breathing and blurred vision that heralded an oncoming attack set in and all I wanted was to collapse onto my bed, preferably far away from here in the upstairs room of 221b in London. 

We made our way to the coastline. I followed Holmes as if  in a trance. When we neared the cliff I was close to blacking out. I tried to reason with myself: surely, it was the memory of  _ The Reichenbach Fall _ . I had feared to lose my companion, and the cliffs brought it back. Deja-vu, nothing more to it than that. I was a doctor, I reasoned to myself. I turned my eyes away from the horizon and onto my companion.

The wind was combing Holmes' curls into a spiky quiff. He was staring at the sea as if it was hypnotising him: when he did look at me, it was with annoyance, as though I had broken a sacred spell. Holmes had been in his mind palace, apparently, I concluded. 

“Makes no sense, Watson. Why not throw Jones' father off here? Perfectly good cliff for chucking a body over.”

I was appalled. “Can you not speak of  it in that manner please?” I chose to take his silence as apology. In the distant harbour, a handful of fishing boats headed out. 

At the moment, all pointed at a murder, and just because I could not think of an innocent explanation did not mean there was not one. I suspected that there was probably something obvious that I missed. 

We left the edge of the cliff. 

“Well, Watson. Do you have a clue where we’re heading?”

“Sherrington Hall?” I said, close to deadpan. 

Holmes did not bat an eyelash and instead continued, “according to my information the estate has been empty some twenty years. We will go and see for ourselves.”

We climbed a shallow hill that brought us out on a huge greensward high above the beach, a timeless green landscape. Cow parsley bloomed in white foam at waist height. In the grassy dunes and hummocks, I imagined Holmes to interpret as hiding places for those inclined to hide. The ground was full of rabbit holes and their droppings squished like raisins under our soles. 

On the cliff top trail that looked like road to nowhere but led to a lone estate. I got the impression that a bad storm could send it tumbling down the cliff. We followed the sandy track that cut through the gorse. 

The estate was Sherrington Hall.

The house was from the eighteenth century. Larger than I thought but as the case has proven so far, my memories were feeble at best. It was surrounded by a garden that had seen better days. 

All was locked, but Holmes came prepared. He had his lock-picking kit at the ready and in no time, we were standing in the entrance. It was a tall room and already here it was obvious  that most of the furniture and decorative items were sold or given away to charity, as only the bare walls and the wooden floor welcomed us. The floor held Holmes’ interest as he knelt down and inspected them closely. The same procedure – Holmes’ examining and probably deducing while not uttering a word aloud – was repeated in the kitchen, the sitting room and the small library. 

Upstairs, the sleeping quarters appeared the same; however, in what I assumed to be my late grandfather’s bedroom, a mirror caught Holmes’ interest. My companion urged me to have a look in it.

“What do you see?”

“Besides myself, you mean?”

“That’s obvious; even it shows that the mirror is still working after all these years.”

“I’m getting grey?”

“Really, Watson.” A beat, as if he wanted to say something different, but instead opted for, “Very well then. We’ll take our leave.”

The next stop according to Holmes should be the stalls. On our way there, finally some more details about the case were shared with me: “Watson, it is probably high-time that I should give you some more details about our client, Mr David Jones.”

“Grand that this thought has crossed your mind, at long last.” I did not try to hide my displeasure about being kept in the dark. Normally, I was more willing to play the fool for him but as this case was somehow linked to my own past... It felt as if I was nothing more to Holmes as another mystery to solve, as if my family secret was just another case, as if it meant nothing more to him. 

As always, Holmes was unaware of this. He offered me one of his monologues: “David Jones’ father was not only the private valet, but also the closest to what one might call a friend and confidant of your grandfather. They were around the same age, shared each other’s trust, and apparently Jones’ father was the only one who could handle his certain particularities. He disappeared shortly after your grandfather’s death. Unlike you, to be never seen again. The son is sure that there has to be a connection.”

“And what does he suspect, Holmes?” I knew that he needed an audience, and I had never felt so prominently out of place, as when I acted like this while my companion told me about my very own identity. For the first time in our partnership, I questioned my position. Unknown to me at that point, I would go further still shortly.

“It’s not all clear to me as yet, I’m afraid to say, old boy.” Holmes hesitated, weighing his words carefully. “I think that your grandfather had other plans about his inheritance than he led on. I believe he thinks his father’s disappearance might have something to do with your grandfather and that . Mr Jones suspects something  sinister, but as of now, I am undecided. We shall see.”

It took Holmes but a short time to find a side entrance to the stalls: a wooden door that had seen better days. With little force, it yielded to our desire. 

I was glad to be inside a building again as a storm was approaching. Dark clouds coming nearer, it seemed as if it would rain soon. The temperature had dropped over the run of the day; I wished to be back in the inn already. Entering the storage room, probably for garden tools and the like, made me shiver. All those left behind things, creating shadows, creaking in the wind. Dust and dirt everywhere, made it easier for Holmes to determine that there was a cellar below.

“A secret passage,” he exclaimed, clearly fascinated and elated.

Of course, Holmes wanted to investigate, and of course, I followed him. We had barely entered it, when fate struck the first time. “Quick, Watson!” Holmes whispered to me, and we rushed to the stairs. However, it was too late. The blowing out of the candle should have been a warning: with a loud bang, the entrance was locked by the wind. We were trapped. 

Immediately Holmes started inspecting the room, first the corners, then the walls, muttering quietly to himself. To be frank, I was not sure that he was not secretly enjoying this. While I was visualizing myself and Holmes being starved to death, my companion brought me back to the present. 

“Watson!” I jumped up. My eyes needed a second to get used to the darkness. Apparently, he had discovered a stone that looked promising to him. “Help me. There is a good fellow. We need to get this out of the way,” he instructed me. 

“Do you suspect another secret passage?”

“We’ll soon see, Watson.”

Together we managed the task. Cold air came from what appeared to be a tunnel. Holmes signed me to go first. However, as much as I tried to convince my feet to move, I could not. My sight was blurring around the edges. I hoped that I was only feeling dizzy and not actually suffering a stroke. I was breathing heavily as if I had run a marathon while I was frozen on the spot. Suddenly, there was a warm hand on my shoulder; it was only Holmes.

“Apologies, Watson. I should have known better. I’ll go first, if you will follow close by.”

“One moment, I’m not ready yet.”

It felt like a hundred years until I felt well enough to continue. The walls still seemed to be closing in on me, but I pushed on. We needed to get out of there. First, it went some meters what I assumed was straight ahead, then a couple of steps downward and at last, we reached another wooden door.

Daylight welcomed us. Fine rain had settled in. We found ourselves in the back garden of the house. While I pitied the poor state of the property that used to be my childhood home all those decades ago, I made the mistake to let Holmes out of my sight. Hearing a crash and the silent cursing of my companion, I rushed to find him. I discovered him in a hole, holding his ankle. It took me far too long to help him out of it. 

I ushered him to a nearby tree stump to examine his foot. 

“You are in luck. The swelling is not too bad. Let us go to the inn. You need some ice for the swelling.”

“No, Watson. Ignore the ankle; it is not important now. You will be my legs and my eyes. As we all know, you’re constantly underestimated.”

“Holmes!”

“Please, trust me.” He spoke quietly and determined. “Watson, go to the hole and climb into it. There you should find something that is familiar to you. Show no emotions and pick it up secretly.”

I did as Holmes asked me to do, naturally. When I was thinking it was all a lie by Holmes achieving God-knows-what I spotted a small, shining thing on the ground. Instantly, I realized what it was, and I knew why Holmes had given me the instruction.

When I returned to the ground level, Holmes had vanished. Standing in the rain, on my own family’s land, I had rarely felt so alone in my life.

tbc


	3. Behind Closed Doors

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back to "The Winter Sea",
> 
> aka a mystery told in four different timelines. Chapter 3 is all about Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & bedrooms, hence the title. 
> 
> This particular part of the story wouldn't have existed without my beta, notjustmomj, who saved me from deleting it all. I was constantly saying, "it doesn't flow, it doesn't work". Big projects are fun - until they aren't. More than 22k word account (so far!) is more than I can handle alone. Thank God for Kate <3
> 
> Further thanks to all the people who left comments & kudos. You're such a great motivation! I'm looking forward to read your thoughts...
> 
> Now: it's time to look behind closed doors...

_Most of us are stuck with memories like flypaper._

_Stuck there is a staggering amount of miscellaneous data,_

_most of it useless._  

(The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes)

 

 

**Sherrington, 2020**

There is a bedroom in the Watson-Holmes household that only has one queen-sized bed. It's the master bedroom with an adjoining bath. It should not come as a surprise as houses tend to have such rooms, but, for the people as well as the place itself it was a new addition.

When the movers came, bringing in box after box filled with books and chemicals and children's toys, two chairs and a pram, clothes and all the necessary modern gadgets and one stuffed teddy, the construction crew had left only a day earlier. They had had a tough job: to make it a home, in under a month.

"Of course, we have blueprints."

Mr Watson, the more patient of the two men, had presented it to them some months ago, apparently to the surprise of Mr Holmes if the architect had to guess. Yet, his husband had let it be, only insisting that "there had to be one bedroom."

"No problem," the architect had replied, with a bit of a chuckle and she added, "most houses do." Cordelia Partridge had been vetted by Mycroft Holmes, and approved for her attention to detail.

Mr Watson explained: "This estate never had a master bedroom for two people." And the "idiot” left unspoken by his partner was evident in his facial expression.

"It has," the consultant corrected. A know-it-all who happened to be twin to the architect. Cecilia Partridge had lectured them for an hour about some antique mirror in said soon-to-be bedroom.

"Sherrington Hall hadn't," John Watson interjected, "I would have known it. It would be in the blueprints." He waved them around. 

"Unless…" Sherlock Holmes said, looking soft, not quite the man the architect and consultant expected to meet given the background information of their clients’ more active days. The two women, mid-thirties, red-heads, career-driven, were prepared to be mocked, deduced and called names. Instead they were watching a man following his partner's lead, "it never made it into official records…"

His thinking pose, at least, had survived retirement. It had been a bit uneasy, watching this version of Sherlock Holmes. He might have been there all along, but never for the public eye. 

"How's that possible? There are rules, Sherlock. Of course, the two wars happened and in over a hundred years documents can be lost, but why does the old blueprint from the turn of the century exist but the addition is not registered? Rooms can not simply vanish…"

There was a silent conversation going on, a talk that might have gone something like this:

"If you said that Mycroft is involved in this, I would say _maybe…_ "

"My brother might be the British government, and I'm almost certain that he is in charge of the Royal Family’s social media accounts, but even Mycroft Holmes isn't immortal, John. He has his limits and living for 150 years is past even his powers. And why should he care for Sherrington Hall anyway? He assured me that he hasn't heard about it before. Remember his face when we announced our retirement plans? His minions certainly had a tough task to investigate everything and anything about it in a limited timeframe. Sherrington has no wikipedia entry and had no Google street view when we came here; it's a remote place which is why we picked it. Further, I had no ancestor with the name Jones. Far too pedestrian, Mycroft would say. Who did the blueprint again? Some common name…?"

"David."

"Yes, exactly. David Jones. Why should this David Jones of Sherrington in 1903 have anything to do with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson of 221b Baker Street in London in 2020?"

"Maybe they're vampires?"

"Really John? Vampires? It might be around the time this inferior Bram Stoker novel was published but seriously, John? Vampires? What will we find in the bedroom then? Two coffins?"

The silent conversation ended with a grinning John Watson who suddenly appeared to be a  much younger man. For a second the twin sisters could imagine how he might have been in his twenties, maybe called Johnny instead of Dr. John H. Watson, with a cheeky wink and short blond hair, quick with his words and ready for adventure, not knowing what the future will bring and where he will end up and more importantly, with whom...

 

***

 

**Sherrington, 1920**

My Holmes looks peaceful in his sleep. Age has treated us well. These days, it is my beloved who needs more rest than I do. Insomnia usually finds me awake at dawn, but I enjoy the luxury to doze so close to him and watch him unguarded.

For nearly a decade we had been secretly and silently sneaking around 221b: retiring with whispers, stolen kisses and hushed endearments, only to rise early to return to our own cold beds alone. There had been cases that led us to remote cottages. A particular setting for reasons unknown to me by then which had increased as the years went on, but it had led to hidden treasures.

Our love was meant to shine.

It had taken me far too long to understand why the trip to the countryside occurred more often in the 1910s. I had simply followed Holmes, where he went I chose to follow, always and forever. No Great War could part us, even though it had been a close call for me. 

I was not as young as I used to be when I had joined the army in the 1870s, but even as an experienced army doctor I could not have envisioned the horrors. It was a new era of war, the rattertam of artillery, the yellow gas, so many innocents lost. I had needed to sign up as I was a patriotic soul, yet not as reckless as I had been as a twentysomething seeking adventure abroad, but when I returned the second time it had been home no more. I had fought for Queen and Country and we had won, but the price was too high, when I set foot on British soil once more at the end, I knew that it was over: 221b was lost.

Oh, it was rebuilt. We could recreate it to our heart's content with Mrs Hudson's blessing thanks to her will and with Mycroft Holmes’s considerable financial assistance, but we were too old and far too broken. We spent all our energy in keeping each other alive, to mend what could be fixed and to accept what was irrevocably gone, and those tasks were enough for us. 

I never returned to London. 

At times, and particularly during the night, I wonder if it was a good decision and not a selfish one to abandon our old life, as I look back in the books that I have written and published, as a retirement project to the delight of the public. 

Alas, it is what it is, and when observing my love with his smoothed out, carefree face, being at ease in our shared bed, I know I am home.

 

*******

 

**Sherrington, 1903**

After Holmes had vanished God-knows-where, I pondered whether I should go back to the inn. The weather, the season and my only shortly restored health called for it, but my feet subconsciously led me to the beach. There, possibly like I had all those decades ago, I sat and witnessed the crashing waves. The air was fresh and clear. 

No one except the seagulls was here. I was alone.

My coat was soaked, and I wondered why I was not freezing more. Perhaps I was past it all as London seemed so far away. The storm came and went, and I remained. It could have been one hour or two; I lost all sense of time. 

The only thing that linked me to reality was the item securely put away in my pocket: the silver medallion. It took me a while to open it as my hands were shaking. To my surprise two small, folded notes were hidden in the secret compartment. 

The first note was sadly rather short:

_Watson, as you have gathered by now, we will go separate ways for a time. However, I am sure you will rise to the occasion as ever._

The second note he had written earlier as his writing was significantly more legible. Also, a bit more charming, or should I say, cunning:

_I have a task for you, Watson. It is central for our investigation that you play your part perfectly. Question David Jones about the disappearance of his father. Only when you feel that all is said, then you are satisfied. Take notes afterwards._

_And please, be careful. Do not take any unnecessary risk. I believe in you._

_S.H._

 

***

 

_I believe in you._  

That sentence in particular had struck a chord in me. It replayed in my mind from the beach back to the inn and further to our room.

Damn, Holmes, that man knew me all too well, like a puppeteer, or as a violinist manipulates his instrument to make the most marvelous tunes, to choose a metaphor more fitting for Holmes.

It was almost as if I could hear his deep, cunning voice and feel his dark, always alert eyes on me; how did he manage it, repeatedly? And to hide his message to me in the medallion.

Surely, “I believe in you” had to have a deeper meaning. 

Oh, blast it all! 

I needed Holmes to solve this mystery, and the other, and maybe the third as well (even though I was not sure I wanted to reveal it, the outcome might shatter me far more than any family secret could ever do, as Holmes was my family).

I knew that crisscrossing the floor of our room at the inn was not helping. God forbid someone would overhear my muttering.

Downstairs, the evening rush was not at full speed yet. That two men were sharing a room was provoking enough.

The good widow, Mrs Partridge, had been agreeable without a ruse yesterday, and that should have been suspect on its own. The alternative would be to let her never meet Mrs Hudson. However, that outcome was better than a blackmail case. 

Far too vividly, I could recall our arrival at _The Jolly Bulldog_ yesterday:

_“It’s most kind to put us up, Mrs Partridge, and on such a short notice,” my companion had said._

_“Oh, not at all. I am only sorry that it is such a small house. I hope it’s not too irksome for you and Dr Watson to share that tiny, little room, Mr Holmes?”_

_“Well, Watson and I are used to each other’s ways, Mrs Partridge. I smoke all night, and he snores terribly.”_

_“We’ll be very comfortable,” I assured the good woman, because, Good Lord, what else should I have said?_

Now, Holmes had left me with a mission and my mind was still occupied with him instead. 

I reined myself in. 

If _I believe in you_ meant _I love you_ , Holmes should say so.

 

***

 

**Sherrington, 1920**

I remember the last night I spent in _The Jolly Bulldog_ alone quite vividly. I was nearing the breaking point, but unknown to me, the tide was turning. Holmes later told me, whispered confessions in our now shared bed, that he had been terribly lonely too.

During that particular night he admitted, he had slept not at all. He had haunted the countryside, following my path, trying to recreate my hours without him. To fill out the blanks in order to fill the void inside himself. Obviously, he hasn't said it those exact words. They are my words, the words of a poet, the lover speaking.

And oh, how I had wished to call him a lover, my beloved, that January night in 1903.

I had painted a picture in my head ever since we had boarded the train to Sherrington from London.

The ride took almost half a day, and I could hardly imagine a time when one could make the trip in under five hours in the future. Already the trip on the Southern Western Railway from Waterloo Bridge took close to three hours. Oh yes, I had time to indulge in my private fantasies, and I was grateful that the newspaper I pretended to read I could drop in my lap when I got carried away, and that I was traveling with the most observant man in all of England, except when it comes to matters of the heart concerning himself.

It baffled me that in all the years I never gave myself away. I should be grateful, but it was frustrating. Surely, I could not blurt it out! I didn't want to scare him, scandalize him, or worse. Emotions overwhelmed him so easily, and yet, I could not stop myself.

One last time I had wanted to be brave. To test the waters for more than friendship. 

When Mrs Partridge had presented us with a small room, one single bed, I had been excited.

It terrified me no more, I had long made my peace with my desires. The harsh tone of my father, my brother, probably all of my family, were only echoes from the past, dulled and mostly forgotten. 

So my grandfather's estate wasn't far? What should he do? The old man I barely remembered? Surely he would be scandalized but alas, I didn't even recall his voice and only recalled some fragmented pieces of his features. We had a similar voice, even I don't know why I stored away that particular information. Maybe he was an avid storyteller and I owed my talent for it, from my grandfather, I mused.

I had wanted to take a chance. Sharing a bed with Sherlock Holmes… what might happen?

Nothing happened, which frustrated me beyond measure. If I had not the notes I probably would have left, hot with tears, forlorn and reckless as I visualized myself as a twenty year old in Sherrington Hall.

Instead I had wanked furiously. _I believe in you_ had replayed in my mind until I climaxed. 

Holmes later admitted something similar. He won with the setting: he had crept back into Sherrington Hall. Blushing he shared the secret with me, in hushed tones: that he had taken himself in hand in the bedroom upstairs, imagining it was my hand.

 

***

 

**Sherrington, 1903**

When I came downstairs from our room, after all, I could not hide there forever, even I wished childishly for a second that I could wait there until he returned and the tide was turning in our favour once more, David Jones was waiting for me. Had Holmes arranged this? I decided to play along; after all, I could eat something as it was early evening and good ale was never a bad idea.

First, we talked about the countryside, the events of today (a censored version, obviously), and some of our most thrilling cases. David Jones proved to be a fan of the great detective as well as a skilled storyteller himself. 

Then I remembered what Holmes had asked of me. Trying to sound casual, I asked, “What happened back then? My apologies, if you have told it a dozen times before. I’ve got a morbid curiosity as Holmes would assure you.” I put on my most encouraging smile and waited for him to go on. Even with Holmes being God-knows-where, I would not let him down; besides, I had my own personal agenda.

“Six weeks before your grandfather’s death, my father drove to Sherrington to meet him. I suspect that it was about the inheritance.”

“In the end, the Church of England inherited it all, didn’t they?”

“I think they did, Dr Watson. Actually, I am not quite sure...” Jones looked thoughtful for a moment, as if a thought puckered in his mind but he could not grasp it. He took another sip of the rather excellent local brew, then, he continued: “However, it seems there had been some other plans, maybe including you, but I could not verify it.”

“Where did you come by this information?”

“From a draft in my father’s hand. I found it a hidden compartment in his desk years later after his disappearance by sheer luck. Sadly, it did not reveal enough. Mr Holmes has examined it already and if he doesn’t see anything of significance...”

What game was my companion playing at? When he had already spoken to Jones, what else could I learn? I was no detective. Apparently, my inner state was so grave that others could notice it, as David Jones hesitantly inquired, “is everything all right, Dr. Watson?”

“Apologies, Jones. It must be my just recent recovery from a severe illness and that Holmes dragged me here regardless. But that’s Holmes for you.” I winked to cover my distress and it worked. 

We ordered another round. 

I picked up the subject again; after all, I had a mission. “I think we stopped when you started to recall the day of your father’s disappearance?” 

“Right. My father was probably the only man on earth that your grandfather confided in. On the day of his disappearance, he drove to the house in the morning as usual. He should have been returning around three o’clock in the afternoon,  as he had said as such to my mother. As the two houses are close, it should not have taken him long. Yet, between those few miles, he disappeared and was never seen again. How is that possible? People cannot simply vanish!”

Jones’ voice was raised at the end; his outburst did not go unnoticed by the people around us. There were some looks, so we hastened to rein each other in. He took a sip of his drink to settle his emotional state, as I took a breath to control my piqued curiosity. 

Using my particular voice, I normally saved for my patients or, more often these days, for distressed clients, I addressed Jones: “That was surely not easy for you.”

“Thank you, doctor. Yes, you’re quite right.” He stopped, clearly formulating the next sentence in his head. A habit all too understandable: it did not fit well with men to only rule with the mind. Yet, we have to master our emotions. “I can’t live without knowing what has happened to him, Watson. I have taken it up myself to bring light into this mess.”

“One thing, Jones, if I may: the police had certainly investigated? Where there really no clues about his fate?”

“No, the carriage, as well as himself, of course, were never seen again.”

“That is odd.”

“Yes,” and if as just occurring to him only now, “Yes. _Odd_... do you know what is odd as well, Dr Watson?” Before I could inquire, he continued, “That Mr Holmes seemed to be pleased that I have found no trace of my father. Odd, isn’t it?”

“Well... Holmes is an _odd_ fellow, but in most cases, he has a reason for his oddities. It just takes a while for us to understand his reasoning.”

I took a sip of beer, waiting whether he would add something. 

I recalled _The Adventure of Silver Blaze_ , the case of the disappearing racing horse. Holmes had been all about the curious incident about the dog during the nighttime. I had been confused, I remembered, because the dog had not done anything, and that, according to Holmes, had been the curious thing.

Maybe Holmes saw a parallel between the two cases: that a man as well as his transportation had vanished might be a lead. Perhaps, he was more interested in the fact that he had vanished so close after the death of his best friend. 

The questions were tumbling in my head. My emotional state was not better either. I needed Holmes to make sense of it, alas, he could not or would not show himself, and I did not know which was worse at the moment. Before I lashed out against an innocent man, I made my farewells to Jones, hoping against hope that our departure was not too brusque. As I managed to arrange another meeting for the coming morning, I assumed that I had succeeded. 

When I finally dragged myself to bed, too early but too physically exhausted to care, one of my last thoughts were that hopefully a stroll through the countryside would trigger my memory at last. After all, Sherrington should be my home.

My last conscious thought before dreams took over was that I wished Holmes were sleeping next to me.

 

tbc


	4. An Investigation by Dr. Watson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back 'To the Winter Sea'!
> 
> Endless thanks to my beta who checked, polished and edited this chapter like a pro. Further, my gratitude for the people who left comments; there's no bigger motivation to write than this. Lastly for the kudos as they are indeed love, easy to give with a button but such an impact for the author. Wonderful tool by ao3.
> 
> This chapter had originally a wedding scene. However, it wasn't to be. But this chapter contains a scene that my beta called "simply gorgeous". It's one of my favos as well. We need treats for all chapters :)
> 
> Enjoy 'An Investigation by Dr. Watson'! I love to hear your observation and deductions ^^

_"All past is prologue."_

 (William Shakespeare)

 

 

 

**Sherrington, 1920**

I remember our first night in Sherrington Hall. The first night as official owners of the property, I mean. I never found out how Mycroft or Sherlock Holmes or both had managed that I inherited the house in the end as my grandfather had intended in 1870. 

All I know was that one day we were homeless, as a bomb had destroyed 221b and major parts of Baker Street, and the next we were packing for Dorset. Perhaps one day the true story will be told, but certainly not by me.

As this is our story, this is my legacy. 

Holmes and I deserve a soft epilogue, and how does the saying go? _Memory gives moments immortality, but forgetfulness promotes a healthy mind._

Words are living things. They have personality, a point of view, and their own agenda. And I know that we need to let the ghosts to rest. Our old life ended when we came to Sherrington in 1919. 

The war had left traces in the town as well as the house. Technically, it is not a hall anymore as it is simply too small now. We never rebuilt the wings. It is a larger cottage now, one might say. Who knows? In fifty or a hundred years, people might not even know it under its old name: Sherrington Hall.

Anyway, terrible rambling tendencies! I became one of the old men who are sentimental and nostalgic, always prone to storytelling and never quite remembering the ending when stuck in the middle. Thank God, I have Holmes who interrupts my thought process or my tales brusquely to bring it quickly to a conclusion. He pats my shoulder or squeezes my hand nowadays, and I sense that he's relieved that he knows that I had this tendency already in my youth as otherwise he would be terribly anxious for my mental health. Not openly, just as he seemed to play the violin by sheer chance when I had nightmares of the war in London. Or these days, a gramophone that appeared with some popular songs which Holmes despises but I love dearly. And if we cannot sleep, we dance in our living room close to the fireplace. My Holmes looks so beautiful in the moonlight.

Where was I? 

The first night in Sherrington. We were like newlyweds. All of a sudden, we were so shy that we dressed separately in the bathroom. The new bedroom, a shared bed, it was such a thrilling feeling.

Technically, we had our sides from Baker Street. Stubbornly, we wanted to try out a new order. Or, Holmes wanted, I was too knackered from the move. My Holmes, ever curious, lectured about directions and whatever, I zoned out as best I could. I love him, but I am only human, sometimes I wished he would shut up.

In the end I shut him up with kissing. It is quite effective, and as things progressed Holmes could observe and deduce that our routine and role in bed has not changed with the place. It is us, we fit. It’s home.

 

* * *

 

**Sherrington, 1903**

When I woke the following morning, I was not as refreshed as I wished, and probably needed for today’s activities. Dreams had plagued me during the night, or had they been memories? I could not tell. 

I dragged myself out of bed, made my morning toilet, and was ready to face the day, when Mrs Partridge knocked at the door. She brought with her a nondescript envelope. I thanked her, probably too rushed as I hoped it was another note from Holmes. I missed him terribly. I promised myself to divert the good woman later, however, first things first: the letter. It read as follows:

_My dear Watson,_

_You have talked long with David Jones without getting all his secrets yet, however, not all that bad, old boy. You get a second chance today. If possible, the trip should take at least two hours. The weather should play into our hands. A walk to the ocean seems like a splendid idea._

_I count on you, as always_

_S. H._

 

***

 

As it was only 8 o’clock, I ate breakfast languidly and informed Mrs Partridge of my plans. Holmes needed to be near to have dropped the envelope as well to know about my exact whereabouts. Sadly, I had not seen him, or any idea why he was playing this charade in the first place.

The weather was on its best behaviour this morning. There was just enough sun to take the sting out of strong breeze, and the sea and the sky competed for the brightest shade of blue.

Before my meeting with David Jones, I strolled through Sherrington. 

I made my way to the local church, St. Thomas. The bells were ringing and butterflies could be spotted at the roadside. I fell into an easy step. I had never seen a church so busy in London, not even for weddings or funerals. When Reverend John Taylor came out of the vestry in his robes, I startled. I was no churchgoer, and I felt a bit nervy. 

It seemed as if the Reverend was expecting me. His quotation from the Bible replayed in my mind as I made my way forward to the sea: _We are pressed on every side by troubles, but we are not crushed. We are perplexed, but not driven to despair. We are hunted down, but never abandoned by God. We are knocked down, but we are not destroyed_.

The walk did wonders for my mood. Now I could finally begin to admire the Dorset countryside. It might not trigger my memory, but the writer in me rejoiced in it. 

I took a shortcut through the field: long grass grew on either side of the path. Walking in the other direction was a slim woman about two decades my junior, wearing spectacles. As I grew closer, I could tell that she was looking at me as they did in the street, partly in sympathy, part voyeuristically. What was different about her gaze was the way she held my eyes steadily and even offered me a shy smile. I appreciated this acknowledgement, this tiny mark of respect. I hurried along the path to the coastline. 

I kept going until I reached the bench that overlooked the town.

Up there, I finally released a full breath. Arriving here, in Sherrington, had solved nothing. The melancholy overwhelmed me once more. I missed Holmes and his violin, or his sudden wish to stroll through the park, our arms linked. Always he could spot my moods, why had he abandoned me now? Bloody Dorset! The blurred memories as well as Jones’ strange story, his pitiful stare as well as Holmes’ harsh treatment of me, followed me everywhere I went. 

If anything, it was worse here. It did not feel safe to look anywhere. To the left, there was the beach where I had played in my youth, or so they kept telling me. Mrs Partridge had recognised me instantly ("Will I ever...Johnny Watson!"), at yesterday's lunch she had slipped that I would surely be here to show his _companion_ his country. I did not know where to look, blushing terribly, and questioning which was the worst outcome: that Holmes was affronted by the good women's implication or that he would took one look at me and deduce that I wished to do so but I was unable. 

Ahead, the sea where I had dreamed of a life at sea as a young lad. Or so I must had, surely. It was a boy's dream, I could not be that odd. Or was I already an outcast in my youth? Marked by strangeness, my wicked nature already branding me? To my right, my grandfather’s estate high on the hill. All I had was a name and other people's stories about him, me and my so called family. "Poetry or truth?" Holmes had asked once Lestrade. He could not solve the case of _The Abominable Bride_ . Would _The Adventure of Sherrington Hall_ share the same fate? Behind me: the town, Sherrington, my so called home. 

“Do you mind if I sit here?” A voice brought me back to the present.

It was the young woman from the path earlier. Close up I estimated her age as mid-twenties. I suspected from her clothing that she might be a governess. Her facial structure reminded me of someone but I could not say whom. Holmes would have deduced her whole life story by then. I was more startled than anything at first. Has she been following me? I flinched, then realised I did not actually care. What was the worst she can do to me? I shrugged and she settled gently at the other end of the bench.

“I love this view,” she said. I waited for it. One, two, three... “I’m sorry if it’s rude, but I know who you are. I can’t imagine it’s like for you...”

“Tell me about Sherrington,” I replied. To distract myself, her or something else I could not put my finger on, I tried on my old role as Holmes' assistant. “Who lives here?”

She pondered the question for a second. Her eyes turned soft. “Many have been here all of their lives, for generations, some of them have never travelled fifty miles outside town. Then there are the incomers. Elderly people who left the cities for retirement because they enjoy the quiet and the sea. We get tourists for six weeks in the summer, but we’re a working town mainly.”

“Crime?”

“Mostly thefts from lock-ups.” She could not hide her smirk in time. “Seriously. Your Holmes could read the weekly crime report in the paper, if you do not believe me. About thirty offences a year, pretty much all minor. We’ve never had a murder.” Her expression turned grave.

“For Holmes to solve the case, he needs to understand the town, the people. You understand that?”

She beamed. After a fashion, she was rather pretty; surely, she had a sweetheart. “I do, Dr. Watson.” I noticed her white, even teeth. It would be no hardship spending time with her. 

In the distant harbour, a handful of fishing boats headed out. “Any boats missing? Any other modes of transportation? A hansom? Anything?”

She shook her head in the negative. 

I did not know what else to say to her, so I remained quiet. At one point, the mysterious woman got up and disappeared. Her last words hound me back to the inn, “I read your stories, Dr. Watson. You are a moral compass; you will find a way home.” I spent some time questioning if my compass was not, in actuality, broken beyond repair.

 

***

 

On my way back to _The Jolly Bulldog_ there wasn’t a soul on the street, no drunken arguments to reassure me that life was still going on as normal outside, not so much as a single footstep. I shuddered. Silence had always made me nervous in the past. I preferred the hustle and bustle to silence any day. It was when it was quiet that the bad things happened, or so the war as well as the time as Sherlock Holmes’ Boswell had taught me. 

This story had gotten under my skin in a way that no other had. It was partly because it happened to me. More than that, it happened at my childhood home. It was because whatever happened – whether we would solve the case or not – Baker Street would never be the same after this. 

I had been dropping hints lately about taking early retirement. We had been partners for nearly twenty years. Holmes had always insisted that he would never leave London; the countryside held no interest for him, and I could never bear to abandon him. Now, for the first time, alone in the darkened town of Sherrington, I gave retirement serious consideration. 

Maybe. But not now.

I would see this story through to its conclusion, come what may. It was this bloody story. It had changed me on a deeper level than I realised.

The wine Mrs Partridge offered me when I returned to the inn was a mistake. I did not handle alcohol well these days. 

Tuesday night turned into Wednesday morning. One, two, three, four a.m. came and went. I was exhausted but the memories of today and the past tumbled together inside my head. 

 

* * *

 

**Sherrington, 2020**

A case had led them to Sherrington in the first place. Of course, it had been a case as back then they had been Sherlock Holmes – consulting detective – and Dr. John Watson – assistant, blogger and best friend. Actually, they had accepted it because the incident from _The Final Problem_ had been partly leaked in the tabloids and in social media. London had been the last place John wanted to be with his daughter Rosie.

Out of the blue, Sherlock had presented this case. John had been suspicious but grateful; of course, he had followed him to Dorset. Old habits die hard, or so he had chided himself silently during the drive. Sherlock had been behind the wheel. John sat in the front, anxiously looking back at Rosie in her seat. She could get fussy and it was a long drive. However, the toddler surprised them both: she slept. Maybe Sherlock's music selection had been on point. They had been relaxed too, John teasing him about not consulting a map or asking a local when it became apparent that they had taken the wrong way, and Sherlock's sulk was purely for show. They had bickered and Sherlock's, "if you can do it better, do it," was a challenge and teasing in equal measure. They switched places and surprisingly, John indeed found the way to Sherrington without any help.

"You've been here before," Sherlock had chided him accusingly, and back then John had denied it. "Admit it." His partner had come close in his private space, and John had felt his gaze on him. Yet, it didn't feel as a deduction game - and Sherlock knew his opinion about him as a target and surprisingly kept his thoughts to himself most of the time nowadays - but something was puzzling him.

For a second, the air had changed. Then Rosie had woken up and demanded all their attention.

John was a father now, he had responsibilities, and he had promised  himself to make a better job of it than his own parents had. He refused to bring Mary into the equation. One day he might address the elephant in the room but today was not the day (or tomorrow). 

However, to his surprise – even though he should not be after knowing Sherlock for so long – Sherrington proved to be exactly what they both needed, and soon they all called it home. 

They had tried it with Baker Street. God knows they had tried it. For weeks, they had tried to rebuild it. Mrs Hudson had left them the building in her will and Mycroft had offered all financial assistance, but it wasn't the same (or it was too much the same but they changed?) 

221b childproofed was simply too weird. 

This was not its legacy.

Sherrington Hall was their design, with the help of the Partridge sisters and the blueprint by some man called David Jones, but the idea was theirs. In particular, what made a place a home was the people who lived in it. 

Sherrington Hall was their home because Sherlock Holmes, John Watson and Rosie Watson-Holmes made it theirs.

The case had been highly confidential. To be frank: John had not understood parts of it. Something about a secret society that avenges sins or something. Lots of esoteric nonsense if you asked him. Sherlock had tried to explain it to him, about messages in pictures and layouts of old sheds and telling names, and if John recalled correctly knowledge about Thomas of Aquinas and Sigmund Freud were also important, and John had effectively shut him up with a surprise kiss.

His Sherlock was a genius, "bloody amazing," but more: John had wanted to leave the ghosts behind. A celebration dinner might be in order, and John had spotted an inn in town. At _The Jolly Bulldog_ they had ordered a pint each and John had managed to coax Sherlock into eating something too. They both had had no interest in a repeat of the very first dinner. 

Instead of his "married to his work" line, Sherlock had proposed to John soon after moving here. Technically, John had been close behind as they both had blurted out, "Marry me" in the same minute. However, John had been faster for once in the reaction ("YES! GOD YES!"), so technically Sherlock won (not that anyone cared, Sherlock only had a spreadsheet for sexual favours, at least, until his body overruled his hard drive aka his brain during the first time. Sherlock had been chuffed, John had been so in love. He had slipped it out, "love," which had led to round two.). 

Anyway, the first dinner of many in Dorset. They had needed a nanny as there was no Mrs. Hudson nearby. Which was how Sherlock and John had end up meeting the Partridge family: they owned _The Jolly Bulldog_. Their daughters, Cordelia and Cecilia, were the black sheep, or so had their father, a widower like John, with a wink and a broad smile had told them. Apparently, the twin sisters had no interest in taking over the family business but they were enthralled by the fixer upper. They had got on with Rosie like a house on fire.

Back then, John could simply not call his twin sister Harry. 

"Look that you don't get lost, Johnny." 

"Sure, Harry, you mean on the one road that leads in and out of Sherrington?"

Nowadays they bickered and bantered, her visits longer each time. There was officially no plan for a move, but John might have spun a plan to rebuild a wing or maybe even both. Apparently, Sherrington Hall had been much larger in the past. 

When John had presented his findings, quite pleased with himself, Sherlock had tried to look neutral while Rosie had chirped in: "That's so _obvious_ , daddy." And Rosie had perfected the ‘ _obvious_.’ They were lucky that John loved them both to the moon and back. Or how she prefers to say, "like the sea turns," forever changing in a fixed way.

Because sometimes he wanted to throttle Sherlock. Or scream back when Rosie had a tantrum. He definitely yelled at his sister from time to time because it would be odd otherwise. Like if Mycroft wore something other than suits. Which was the primary reason Mycroft only once went to the beach with them, which suited John just fine.

Mycroft Holmes and John Watson were working on their relationship, rocky but not completely shipwrecked. When more sweets magically appeared in Rosie's stomach after a surprise visit of Mycroft and Greg _again_ , however, it was a narrow escape. If it happened to be Sherlock's favourite and he did not get any, it was even worse. Their daughter on a sugar rush and his husband sulking was simply the end. 

Then John H. Watson's reaction was the same as back when he first came here: "Bloody Dorset!"

 

* * *

 

**Sherrington, 1903**

The next morning, it was even more difficult to get out of bed. The pain in my head had doubled, as though I had left part of my skull behind on the pillow. I stumbled a little and clutched at my bedside table. How could this be my life? We need to finish this case, Sherlock had to solve it, and soon. 

Even the weather was mocking me: It was a beautiful day; relatively warm and hazy. I wished to share it with Holmes. Even the once again excellent meal provided by Mrs Partridge could not lift my spirits. As the woman was far too observant, I decided to put an extra wide smile on my face. 

It was less forced when David Jones appeared as I counted the man a friend by now. Our pasts forged a bond between us, and even though I did not know how deep the waters were, I trusted him. So far, all his recollections had passed Holmes’ test, and it was not Jones’ fault that my mind played tricks on me. 

“Doctor Watson, how are you today?”

“I can’t complain, Jones. The weather is rather splendid, don’t you think?”

“Indeed it is, Watson. Shall we go?”

“We shall. Lead the way.”

Together, we left _The Jolly Bulldog_ and went along the path of what I assumed to be the shortest way to the ocean. Jones, familiar with the surroundings, never left my side, unlike Holmes who dashed away from time to time; Jones altered his step to match mine. It was rather nice. We passed some locals, exchanging some pleasantries as we went, and it helped me to navigate Sherrington easier. It was a small town, no more than maybe 500 inhabitants. If I stayed here for a week, I would surely know them all. 

Before we left the outskirts of town, something that took us less than a quarter of an hour, I heard the bells of the church. Only today, I visited it, instinctively drawn to it. For obvious reasons I was no churchgoer but something had called me to it. I had tried to reason with myself that churches held many mysteries as well as memories. However, even a walk over the graveyard had not brought me any new insights. At least, if one did not count the surprising fact that my grandfather was not buried there. 

As if on cue, Jones asked, “you still cannot recall your past, Watson?” 

Startled, I rushed to answer: “No, I’m afraid not. Rather confusing when taking into consideration how beautiful Sherrington is, I think. Looking around one would never assume that something terrible should have happened here.”

“I know what you mean, Doctor Watson. There are days I think it all has to be some fever dream, and I will wake up and my father will walk through the door as if nothing has happened.”

 

***

 

We reached the ocean after roughly half an hour. 

The wind from the sea blew in our faces. It was refreshing. I closed my eyes for a minute and listened to the waves nearby. All of a sudden, I saw a silhouette in front of my inner eyes. It was all strange and rather queer, was this man – I assumed he was a man – coming for me? Or was it a warning of danger to come? There was another male voice. What was real? I opened my eyes and looked into David Jones’ fearful face.

“Dr. Watson! Sir!”

Was it he who was calling me? It was all so confusing. However, I decided to tell Jones that it was a return of my illness that had weakened me. That it was the longer walk up here, surely he would understand. It was rather embarrassing. I could not offer him any further explanation.

We carried on and soon we reached a plateau, from which we had a breathtaking view over the dunes to the sea. 

Jones spoke of his childhood and teenage years, how he had spent his adulthood treasure hunting; here, where in the past ships sunk in catastrophes; sailors found a wet deathbed and their possessions often left for new owners. The rocks that glittered in the sunlight became deadly obstacles when the storm and the wind were blowing, turning the sea into a monstrous beast. Jones clearly had a fondness for sea stories and adventure tales. Perhaps he had wished to be a pirate himself as a boy, I mused. Instead, his dreams had shattered like so many others on the coastline. The disappearance of his father was a black cloud that dimmed even such a glorious day.

“My mother was quite distressed over all this. She refused to talk about it, which is quite understandable, I think. She passed away three years ago, always insisting that I should let it go. That searching for answers only led to madness. I, however, chose the other path: to find out what happened. This means nowadays, to find his body.”

“His dead body?” I inquired. I was aware that my question was insensitive, but I had to be sure. On occasions like this, I realized how much Holmes had rubbed off. My younger self would have been quite scandalized. 

“After such a long time, one cannot imagine that he’s still alive. I cannot imagine that he simply ran away. There were no reasons to do so as there were no money problems, or alcohol abuse or addiction to stimulants, nor some secret woman. I know that some men have a mistress on the side, but my father was not that kind of a man. At least that was what my mother was willing to say about the matter: she was the only woman in his life. And a woman, his wife, should know such things, should they not, Doctor Watson?”

“I suppose...”

“And when Sherlock Holmes offered to help me, it was as if it were a sign.”

I did not know what to say in response, so I remained silent.

 

tbc


	5. Gordian Knot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi,
> 
> I'm so sorry that it took me a month to update "The Winter Sea". Real life AND writer's block is a shitty combination for producing fanfiction. Thanks for the loyal readers, you mean the world to me <3 A big shout out to my beta who's magic. There's not wedding yet, however, the tag #first time among others is a go :)
> 
> Welcome to Dorset!

_Through dark and light, I fight to be, so close,_

_shadows and lies mask you from me. [...]_

_The missing piece I yearn to find, so close,_

_please clear the anguish from my mind._

_So close, but when the truth of you comes clear,_

_so close, I wish my life I’d never come near, so close._

( **Broadchurch** )

 

**Sherrington, 1903**

When I returned to _The Jolly Bulldog_ that evening, the inn was crowded. I spotted two or three familiar faces from Jones’ and my walk through Sherrington. The elderly man in a heated discussion with another might be even the vicar I had encountered earlier today at the church.

The alcohol was flowing and the gossip mill running. There was laughter, clattering of cutlery, some wrong tunes and cheeky winks. Mrs Partridge and her waiters were in full speed, rushing from table to table. It was loud and cheery, very different from the vacant Sherrington Hall yesterday and the solitude at the sea this afternoon.

They were a jovial lot and I was going to miss them. In a way, they knew more about myself and my family that I did, but I comforted myself with the fact that they did not know what has become of me. They had their lives, and maybe, the memory of the old John Watson, Johnny, as they called him. When I caught a glimpse of my companion who seemed to be waiting for me, sitting a bit aloof from them, I did not want to change it for the world.

Instantly, I looked for clues for what had occupied Holmes’ time for the last few days but I had no luck. At least, the ankle did not seem to bother him anymore. I dearly hoped he had listened to me for once and put some ice on it.

Holmes was noting something in his journal, however, when I arrived at the table, he closed it and dropped it into his pocket. He was wearing the clothes from yesterday and he still looked like a gentleman. How had he managed to tame his curls? I felt inadequate with my flushed cheeks, tousled hair and loosened collar from the seaside.

“Watson? I am... _surprised_ to see you.”

I recognised his hesitant and unusual speech in a heartbeat. It was rather odd, but I did not want to get my hopes up. After all, I was only Dr. John H. Watson.

“What have you been doing with yourself, old boy?” Holmes greeted me.

I narrated while Holmes listened intently. Holmes had closed his eyes, his hands in his thinking pose, only breaking his silence it few times to ask short, precise questions I could answer quickly. It was an easy flow as if we had never been parted. We only stopped when Mrs Partridge came to our table to ask for our order – Holmes surprised us both by ordering something to eat as well – and soon brought two dishes of meat pie and two pints of ale then left us to ourselves.

It was our natural form of domesticity, and I cherished every minute of it.

When Holmes asked about Jones, I told him of Jones’ personal quest to find his father’s dead body as well as of his hobby of treasure hunting. I could hear myself getting sentimental and I was sure to be mocked by Holmes any minute now. He surprised me: “Excellent, Watson. You didn’t happen to have another attack today, dear?”

For a second, I was speechless. Then, I blurted out “Holmes! How do you know about that? I try my best – and you spied on me?”

“I can assure you, Watson, that I have never set foot on that beach in my life.”

“But...how?”

“Watson, it’s the science of deduction paired with the new field of medicine: psychology. Both, I think I do not need to elaborate further, dear doctor. The phenomena I am referring to is déjà vu: the feeling that someone has relieved a situation already. In your case, it means that your subconscious – I think that is the term Sigmund Freud used – links the scene with a traumatic incident in your past. Rather elementary, don’t you think?”

“I should stand up and leave immediately. Yet, one is accustomed to your personality and peculiarity over time. Good for you.” Holmes looked stunned for a minute; yet, he offered no explanation or apology. Instead, he seemed to be waiting for me to continue. I reined myself in, but only quite. “As you have already _deduced_ , Holmes, as it is _elementary_ : I had indeed suffered a short setback. Jones was rather startled. Seriously, Holmes, how long do we want to continue this charade?”

“No charade, Watson. If you could only see what an excellent work you have done. One can rely on you, in every instance.”

A small smile settled on both of our faces. Yet, I would not leave him so easily off the hook. “How do we continue, Holmes? There are so many unsolved mysteries. “

“Tomorrow, my dear Watson, you will hear about it all tomorrow. I promise you. For now, however, let us  to bed. I don’t want to talk further about this case tonight.” Moreover, he whispered, so the others did not overhear us, “Please, John. I am terribly exhausted and I have missed you. Come to bed with me.”

 

* * *

 

Together we made our way upstairs. I feared that every person in the inn was staring at us, seeing through our facade of gentlemen and knew that I was excited to share a bed with my companion, and as far as I interpreted it, for more than sleep for the first time? That in a few minutes I would be able to hold him, to kiss him, to cherish him as I had longed for years now? Never had I heard the creaking of the wooden stairs that loudly. Even when we were so close to the door to our shared room, I expected Mrs Partridge to show up and interrupt us, stop us, alert the police. Until we had reached the bed, I had played all possible scenarios in my head and my agitation and ragged breath was not only because of the close proximity of Holmes.

“As if I would let anything happen to you, my dear,” he whispered, at once reading my mind. “As you wrote in one of your stories yourself, I could have been a master criminal but I chose to solve crimes instead. That does not mean that I don’t know how to not get caught.” He caged me in, and I did not feel caught but sheltered. There was only him, my one fixed point, and my whole universe. “Also, Watson, screw the law if they believe this to be a crime.”

And with that, he kissed me.

Our first kiss was passionate but sweet, our second was familiar, and our third was pure lust.

I did not know what role I played in this mystery and what led me to forget Sherrington Hall for all those years, but when being in Holmes’ arms, it did not matter. I knew that just as the sun rises every morning that he would tell me then. He knew who I really was, I knew how I felt when I was with him, and that was all that mattered. I trusted him, simple as that.

We had to be quiet, but _oh God_ , I wanted to be loud, I wanted to scream, and I knew that Holmes wanted to hear me. There were kisses to my neck, and I knew that he wanted to bite me harder, to mark me as his, and I wanted him to allow it but it could not be done.

I cried when he kissed my scar. He kissed my tears away. He held me close and I held him closer.

There were endearments, the ones I was so used to being called but _oh_ , what they truly expressed, a new universe, “my dear, oh my dear, my John.”

I cherished every new one, “my love, my darling, my dearest.” Did it make me weak, did it make me less of a man? No. It raised me up. With words came kisses and touches and _oh_ , it made me tremble. Yet, I did not fall because he anchored me. My safe haven, my Holmes.

In the end, we did not need much. “Take what you need,” I said to him, “my love” and my lover whimpered and started to thrust.

He was a force of nature, wanton, rutted like a beast, and I loved it.

I was a soldier once, and a doctor too, and a companion ever since, and tonight I was a partner.

“John!” And never before had my name sounded _so_.

We held each other close; we were finally completely each other’s home.

***

 

**Sherrington, 2020**

There is a fun fair in town. It always appears for the summer holidays like clockwork. When all of the UK got six weeks off at the same time, the built-up had ended so the children could start their vacation locally.

There was always constant crowd, buzz and laughter.

Rosie Watson loved the flashy lights. She giggled whenever a poor soul crashed in the bumpy car. When they spotted her delight, they joined in.

She was not allowed that many sweets as otherwise, she would be a menace during bedtime, but she was resourceful. Further, she had transformed puppy eyes into an art form. "Please," remained the magical word. She had learned from the best.

There were the already mentioned bumpy cars, a roller coaster, carousel, pony riding, and countless other amusements.

All was noise and light, all the reasons why her parents never could come with her to the fun fair. Her daddy could not face another shooting range, as well as her papa could not endure flashing lights and big crowds. Both men had gone to war, and they had made it back alive. This was all that counted. Some things are beyond repair, and they had made their peace with it.

Medication as well as therapists were red flags nowadays; they found their own solution: retirement. As far as possible from London. This is why they rejected the suggestion by Mycroft - Sussex Down - immediately.

Sussex is where every Londoner went. Everyday people save up all their lives to retire there, to Brighton, Hastings, and Eastbourne. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were no everymen.

Further, it makes little sense to retire where everyone goes if you want to escape them in the first place. Who could promise them that they will not walk into a client, some journalist turned blogger as a part-time hobby, or God forbid former colleagues from Scotland Yard?

If you walk down the pier of Brighton or the countryside outside Eastbourne, you expect Anderson-like people on every street corner. It might be an insult to the people there - and Sherlock had phrased it even harsher - but it remained true: Sussex was terribly _ordinary_.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were anything but. And Rosamund "Rosie" Watson-Holmes was their legacy. They would never be _normal_ (Rosie could imitate the _boring_ pitch-perfect. It was annoying as well as endearing if you asked John.).

Here, they had no cliffs that looked almost the same to the Cornish coast. Here, it was not the most flat and missing hedges as it is so iconic for England.

When looking over Sussex's countryside, you could not be sure until the language gave it away if you are not on the continent. As lovely as Belgium was, Sherlock Holmes was no Poirot.

Further, too many sheep and too little else.

No, in Sussex the colour palette was limited: green, blue, white, some yellow.

Too close to London, too many houses, too many people. Even in Victorian times, the small fishing villages had turned into small seaside towns, rising in inhabitants and tourists at light speed.

Dorset was pure drama.

A hidden treasure, unknown by many, and often suspected not to be as beautiful as Thomas Hardy made readers believe. When Wessex does not exist, put together from all places in Dorset, then the county could not be authentically beautiful. However, it was.

The fun fair might be an aberration but compared to what one could see every day in Brighton? Sherlock Holmes has no interest in bungee jumping at the pier. He had one fall, far too much for a lifetime. The neon signs might blink in rainbow colours to proclaim that Brighton stands together, but John Watson was never a man to stand out in a crowd. He is proud to call Rosie and Sherlock his, and he could share his experiences with hate crime, but he prefers not to.

John Watson had made one last choice, and this time he had chosen Sherlock, Rosie and Sherrington Hall.

And John Watson might be an idiot from time to time, "my idiot," his husband would rumble in his velvet voice, but he knew that Sussex would bore "his idiot" to death.

They had worked too hard to stay alive; therefore, a house facing the golden cap it was to be. Amber cliffs and the bluest of blue water, and a police station that looked as if it had won a design award. It irritated Greg just _so_ when he and Mycroft came to visit.

Rosie dragged Uncle Myc and Uncle Greg to the fun fair. Meanwhile, her fathers were climbing uphill, knowing that the worn-out path was more dangerous as a mix with the grass, and that on a good day they manage it in less than fifteen minutes.

Up here, Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson could overview it all: their home.

 

***

 

**Sherrington, 1903**

It was in the early hours when we opened our eyes.

We lay entwined in the bed, Holmes’ solid weight behind my back. I did not know what today would bring but I wished that it would be like this always. I felt a featherlike kiss to my old scar, the one that brought me back to England and to Holmes, and it was as if my lover could read my mind and signed the bond irrevocably. We would never be parted again.

He started to touch me and I could make out the growing hardness of his cock pressed against me, but I wanted to, no, I _needed_ to have answers first. My body had found its place during the night, but my mind and in particular, my memories were still at sea. I needed Holmes as a light tower, to navigate me safe to the shore. Who had I been, here, in Sherrington Hall, all those years ago?

“Hierarchy, Watson,” he elaborated. “There are two narratives but I believe that they are linked.”

“One case?” I could not quite see it, yet alone believe it, and I guessed that my voice carried my doubts.

“As far as I see it, it is quite obvious.”

“You say that my family secret is linked with David Jones’?”

“Yes, Watson.”

“And how, Holmes?” I had tried out his Christian name during the night; the end result had been a burst of laughter. Holmes assured me that he was not overly fond of his name, so all was fine. Lastly, I guessed to choose Holmes and Watson once more was our way to detach ourselves once more. We had a case to solve, a client needed answers, and it would do us no good if we focused on our private matters exclusively.

“Gordian knot, I assume you’re familiar with the concept? Now, imagine that violence in this case does not hold the key, but deduction. That instead of using a sword, one uses the mind to solve it. What would then be your take on our mystery?”

“We need to know the starting point, the one thing that links the two incidents?”

Oh, it was wonderful to spot now the layers of his praise, how he was secretly pleased that I had followed his thinking process. Even before we had become lovers, he had wished for a companion. He had revealed it himself last night, oh my love; he had pretended to feel nothing because he felt so much. All those years he had kept it firmly locked in secret compartments and as notes never written but in journals and hidden in his silver medallion.

“Exactly, my dear. I was in the archive of Scotland Yard and have done my research. It appears that half a year before your grandfather had invited your family to Sherrington; a treasure from the local church was stolen. And when I looked through the list of suspects, the veil was lifted.”

“A treasure, Holmes? I have not heard anything of a lost treasure during our time here. Are you sure about that? Of course, you are correct, you always are. But I would think that such an event would be gossiped about and in particular Mrs Partridge would tell me about it?” I stopped my rambling, pondered over this curious incident a moment, and blurted out: “You mean, Holmes, the treasure was restored?”

“Yes, Watson, exactly! But the thief was never found.” My Holmes was looking so proud; I had caught something important, hadn’t I? It was quite intoxicating, I could not get another kiss as a reward but it was a rush of adrenalin no less.

“And I know him?” Holmes looked at me expectantly. Maybe I would receive a little something regardless. “I assume that you didn’t want to imply that I have something to do with it?” He nodded, suggesting that I should continue. “However, if the treasure were still missing I would have heard about it. After all, I have been to the church and even asked the vicar. Fair point, I only asked after the grave of my grandfather, but surely, he would have mentioned it? So...”

“Yes, Watson... What do we make out of it?”

“That it doesn’t make any sense?” However, I caught myself, and reframed it. “That the treasure was stolen but brought back?”

“Exactly, Watson!” Holmes was so excited that he kissed me.

It took some minutes until we could resume our discussions regarding the case. To make sure that I would finally hear the end of the story I had partly dressed and had set myself up in the chair next to the bed. I ignored Holmes’ pouting as well as I was able.

“It was one case, John. One could even say that no crime existed in the first place as your grandfather staged his own death. He was getting on in years, and as he lived practically on his own, no one could truly confirm the state of his health. Further, I assume that you inherited your talent for storytelling from him.”

I fell almost from my chair. I had not seen that outcome by a mile.

“But why, Holmes? Was he involved in this treasure business then?”

“In a way, yes, and in another, no.”

“Holmes, in English.”

“He knew about the treasure because he was the one who returned it to the church. Anonymously, of course, during the night, but it was he, I am sure of it. Why? Because he knew who stole it in the first place, and how it weighed on his relative’s consciousness.”

“Holmes...” For a second, I feared the worst. My love caught up in an instant, holding out his hand, which I took without hesitation. It felt wonderful and I wished I could walk with him hand-in-hand at the beach, here, in Sherrington. To face the ocean with the man I love at my side. To hear the waves crashing in, the tide turning, and knowing that we were going to last.

As Holmes stroked my hand, I wanted to weep.

“No, Watson. This was not your trauma you tried to forget. You are an honest man, Watson. However, another Watson, not so much. It was your brother, Henry, who tried to frame you as a potential suspect. A strategy that drove him to the bottle in the end. I assume that your grandfather deduced it, or his grandson confided in him in his despair, and then he tried to save him. Two criminals trying to do some good.”

“Two... so, no, Holmes! It cannot be true. You want to say that my grandfather killed the father of Jones?”

“In a way...”

“And in another way, not. Holmes, if you love me, spill the tale. I cannot stand all these secrets any longer.”

“Good.” My Holmes bestowed a kiss to my hand. “Actually, that is the key – the Gordian knot – my dear Watson: Love, a far more vicious motivator. Your grandfather and Jones’ father were best friends, but they were more than that: they were lovers. I cannot say exactly for how long but I assume for many years. I do not know what tipped them off, but in the end, they decided to abandon their old life and start a new one together. You see, Mrs Jones was right: there was never another woman in her husband’s life. I think that she knew or at least suspected what was going on, hence, her reluctance to talk about it and discouraging her son to investigate his fate. Your grandfather staged his death, natural causes, so no investigation. Then, five days later, the good friend, David Jones’ father, disappeared with the carriage. That is crucial, Watson. It was important that not only the man vanish, his transport must not be found. Now, they had transportation. A dead man could hardly board a train, and here, getting new passports is nearly impossible. No, they needed to go to London. It is the melting pot of a nation where one can reinvent oneself. Maybe they are still there, perhaps they traveled overseas, they have most likely passed on by now. Hopefully, they lived long and happy.”

This time I kissed Holmes’ hand. When I looked up again, I saw that our both eyes were wet. I could not keep the distance, as I was only a man. In a heartbeat, we were in each other’s arms again. We held each other close, breathed the now familiar scent. It felt like home.

I cradled Holmes’ head and started to stroke his hair. His locks were like silk, so sensual. His hands were skittish still, unusual of what they were allowed in daylight, as it must be around seven by now. He patted my back, it was rather endearing, after assembling some courage, he touched my neck and my shoulders, growing bolder with every passing minute, and soon there were some hesitant kisses.

We could have been carried away, and oh, how I wished to explore our bodies further, but it was a new morning and I needed closure.

 

***

 

**Sherrington, 1920**

I am an old man. _The Winter Sea_ will be my legacy.

For some time I had considered writing it down and burning it in the fireplace. However, I cannot do it, as those days are special to me. Therefore, I decided that I will hide them. I cannot put the notes next to the other cases, so the box in the vault will not do. Surely, there are instructions to only open it fifty years after our death but mostly for client's reasons, or to avoid Holmes’ or my own shame with an unsolvable case or one that let us part ways for a time.

Sherlock Holmes and I, Dr. John H. Watson, are no heroes. We are terribly human. Just like everyone else we made mistakes, had fears and wishes during our partnership. I can share it all with the world when the time comes, but not our love. That is ours alone.

What should I do then? The final solution came to me on the day of our anniversary. I had found a rose in my favourite cup that morning. How Holmes managed to get one in January, and here of all places, will remain a mystery. I could ask him or try to deduce its origin, as I am an avid student and loyal assistant to Holmes from the day we met, but I learned with time that some things need the mystery, the magic.

There is a rush of excitement when a case is closed, even today my Holmes never fails to amaze me, and yet, he admitted it to myself: some things are irrational and cherished for it. Our love is the best example: it simply is.

It makes no sense that a man like Sherlock Holmes ends up with a man like me, he would say the same, and that is the beauty of our partnership. I was never considered beautiful but to him, I am beautiful. He whispered it in my ear that morning, and I wanted to protest, as I knew how I look. My Holmes is a beauty, I, myself, would have called handsome at best years ago.

I wanted to say, "look in the mirror, my love, what do you see?" And I sensed the reply, his, not mine - which would have been: ‘an old man’ - "my love."

And this is how it all came to be: the mirror will hide our story, our love, until maybe one day it will be rediscovered. I will put it up there with Holmes tonight. He is out there in our garden with his bees. I could call him now but I will not disturb him yet. I am the storyteller after all, and we have not changed in that regard: we have our adventures, I write them down, and Holmes their first reader.

It will be the same here, even though he certainly has observed my notes and scribbling. He could deduce its content but he has not. _The Winter Sea_ has always been my story to tell.

Next to the rose, I had later found the medallion. I did not need to open it to know that there would be an accompanying note to my tale. It was quite elementary.

He might have thought about throwing it into the ocean. We both have a favourite spot high on the cliffs.

When we came back to Sherrington for good, Holmes instructed a local boy to set up a bench there. The boy turned out to be the son of Mrs Partridge's daughter and David Jones' son, his name being Daniel. He is a carpenter, good with wood and with keeping secrets. In a way, it runs in the family. He did not need an explanation for this project or for our next, a little renovation to the house.

I am glad that he was too young to join the war. I knew that he would have gone otherwise. Daniel Jones might be a new generation, but someone who has a grandfather who ran away with a Watson at the dead of the night wants to be a hero.

Our family are adventurers, as well as our loved ones. We always search for the unknown because we know that love will find us, it might take a while but with a changing time so changes the sea, and the tide is always turning. It is our nature.

And this is why the medallion never found its way into the depths of the ocean: because this is a love story. Daniel Jones' grandfather as well as my grandfather survived, as well as Holmes and me. They are dead by now and we will soon follow, but just as water flows in a circle, so does love.

We do not know who will find the notes and the letter. Maybe it is destined to be one and the same, maybe there are two people and who knows, perhaps our legacy will bring them together, keep them together, or maybe even help them grow as lovers and a family? As a storyteller, I could not imagine a kinder future to men like us, a world without war, and countryside as beautiful as it is now. Holmes' ability has limits, so he relies on me.

Therefore, we both hope just as my grandfather and his love hoped in 1870 for a calm ocean, just as you may imagine the sea in Dorset during winter.

 

tbc


	6. Love is the Answer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it. 
> 
> Thanks a million times to my beta notjustamomj, the mods of Holmestice and gardnerhill who prompted the fic in the first place.
> 
> Further, endless gratitude to my loyal readers who cheered along, speculated about the mystery and were overall the best audience a writer can wish for. 
> 
> There are only a few that left kudos and/or bookmarked 'The Winter Sea' - believe me, I see you. Whenever I received an email by Ao3, it made me smile so hard. 
> 
> For the last time: welcome to Sherrington!

_“The heart of man is very much like the sea,_

_it has its storms, its tides and its depths_

_but it has its pearls too.”_

(Vincent van Gogh)

 

 

**Sherrington, 1903**

I brought Holmes to the sea. 

We could not leave Sherrington without him visiting it at least once. It could have been risky but the cold January weather played in our favour: the locals had decided to stay indoors to not face the chilling wind. We, wrapped up as warm as possible in thick coats, hats and scarves, were enjoying the outing like adventure-seeking young men or newlyweds, and in a way, we were, weren’t we? 

The elements were in uproar; the waves were crashing almost like a thunder against the old rocks; darker clouds and suddenly, the sun blinking through for a second or a minute, and all was alight. 

We did not dare to go to the beach as it was too dangerous, but the uphill proved to be an excellent spot to overlook the spectacle. It was magnificent, breathtakingly so. For a moment Holmes held me tightly in his arms. If someone would have passed by in the distance, they might have thought that it was only one man at the cliff.

***

When we made our way to Sherrington Hall, silently agreeing that here, where it all had started thirty years ago it had to end as well, I picked up our talk: “And what happened with his inheritance? It did not go to the church, did it, Holmes? I surely didn’t see a penny of it.”

“Oh, and yes, the money to start a new life came actually from the inheritance. What a clever trick! The money was there, but the heir had vanished. Yet, the heir – you – were alive as well as dead. In all the mess, you vanishing as well as the good friend, the treasure lost and recovered, and do not forget your brother’s involvement in it, everyone thought it better to let sleeping dogs die. And it worked, until you started to remember and I promised to investigate. The other son, David Jones, would have never had a chance, but a John Watson with the help of Sherlock Holmes would. One could solve with deduction. Therefore, I did.”

“And why did I forget it all? What was my role in it all? Bait?”

We had reached the estate. It had taken us considerable less time as we had rushed here before the weather turned for the worst. I hoped that no snow would fall because if this would be the case, we would be well and truly fucked, or so I feared. However, as I would learn soon: my Holmes had some tricks up his sleeves. 

Now he led me through the garden, apparently, we would not go through the main entrance but take the secret passage. To be frank: I was not overjoyed at the prospect as I remembered far too vividly the late events, but I followed Holmes nevertheless. 

On point, when welcomed by the darkness of the tunnel once more, my companion started to say, “no, Watson. Remember when we had the talk about psychology? There is a theory that the subconscious is where your innermost wishes are kept. However, you could, as the term says, not access it easily and even suppress it. Memories as well as desires. What I think happened was that you saw your grandfather and his lover during the night.”

Maybe to distract me, he asked, “remember what you saw in the garden of Sherrington Hall?” 

For a second I was confused but then the truth was revealed to me: “Fern.”

“Exactly, Watson! Common fern, as you yourself have pointed out in Regent’s Park. What I think happened is that you were an adventurous young man, maybe you went out for a smoke in the garden. And you saw them descending from the secret passage. I cannot tell how much you saw, if it was only a shared kiss or...”

Blast this twilight! I wished I could see my lover now. I was convinced that there had to be a lovely blush on his cheek. He was a magnificent specimen of a man, all mine. And I intend to remind him of this fact soon when the case was finally closed. He could read my mind in my eyes, or maybe he had plans of his own he would share with me in private, as he cleared his throat loudly before he continued. 

“What I want to express is that it affected you but not how the church or society expected it to. It was an awakening, so to speak. However, you knew that you had to go back to London. You were set to join the army at one point, become a doctor, a respectable man. It shattered everything what you have known about yourself, and therefore you hid it away. Maybe you told yourself when the drinking of your brother became so severe that it was an outcome of this too.”

His hand had found mine again, and with it, my fear vanished. With him so close, I could only see the adventure of wandering through a secret passage. Even if I had been lost, Holmes would always find me. He would me lead to the light, or more accurately, in this case, to the small library. Apparently, the tunnel led to the main house as well. 

Looking around, some burden gone, I could deduce myself that this must be the room David Jones’ father had seen my grandfather the last time before all hell broke loose. Here, he must had sat in his armchair by the fireplace, ordering a Brandy and an excellent cigar, and waiting until the house became quiet to meet with his lover in secret, both probably counting the minutes until they would start a new life. They both knew that it would be a rough sea, but they had hoped that the tide would turn in their favour. Not even Holmes knew if they had made it safe, but love means trust, and hopefully happy endings.

A short exclamation and some rustling in the kitchen brought me back. I rushed to the room, only to stop dead: Holmes was fighting with what I suspect to be a picnic blanket. There was a basket as well, full with sandwiches, a bottle of wine, some fruits and some baked goods. What were the odds?

“Watson, be a dear and help me? I will admit that ordering such things is far easier than preparing it. When we come home to Baker Street, we will have to give Mrs Hudson a raise, and not only to encourage her to look the other way or suddenly turn tone-deaf on some occasions.”

While clearly out of his depth, and normally loath to admit a weakness, my Holmes was grinning like a schoolchild. It was a wonderful look on him, carefree and so lovely. Together we managed it. Holmes informed me while we ate in front of the now lit fireplace that Mrs Partridge had taken upon herself to prepare us some luncheon and had sent her daughter here. As I wanted to point out possible risks, he surprised me and said that David Jones’ son currently courted the daughter, so all would be well. Apparently, Holmes had hinted that all I wanted was to say goodbye to my old family home. And in a way, that was true.

“I was not sure, if you simply pretended to have not remembered or if you had truly suppressed what had happened. However, when being alone with David Jones you still had the episodes, hence, the second hypothesis proved correct. You did not need to play act around him, after all. He only knew that you had been ill, but we had never informed him about your revelation during the fever. “

“That was one reason I abandoned you for a short time. The other one was that I had personal reasons. I suspected what had happened recently, and I feared the outcome. “

“Fear, you, Holmes? I cannot believe it. And what outcome?”

“Yes, Watson. Because I love you too. I am a fool, my dear, as I only realised it when you were ill. The thought of you dying was unbearable. However, as you know me, I had to test that hypothesis. I was already willing to go to great lengths to help you – and going to the countryside is something, you know how I detest leaving London – but was it real or just the aftermath of a great scare? Therefore, I left you, to see if I could do what I do: continue to work as a detective. It was horrible, yes, I made progress, but I did not care about the case. All I did was construct other ways to communicate with you. I did not spy on you, but I will admit to have done more deduction games about you than the suspects in your absence. I needed you by my side, it was rather elementary.”

I wanted to take him into my arms and shut the world out, but I knew that I had to address one thing prior. “What are you telling our client?”

There was one of his rare smile on his face, beautiful, tender, and a bit melancholic. Oh, how I love him. His voice was so soft, so intimate. 

“Remember, John? There were cases in which we decided to let the case rest. _The Devil’s Foot_ comes to one’s mind, obviously. There, we let the criminal go because he did it out of love. Why would it here any difference? Because they were men? That would make me a hypocrite, as I love you as a lover and not just as a friend. The crime is only a crime by society’s standards. Moreover, I hope that one day it will be no crime anymore. However, I do not think that we will be alive by the time that day arrives. Therefore, it is up to us to choose. “

“And how did you choose?” I whispered as I felt that such conversation was for us lovers alone.

“Oh, I already did. I met him, do not scoff, Watson, please, my dear. I had to do it. I could not do it with you by my side; it would be too much of a distraction. I could not tell about lovers and you...” I detected a roughness in his voice. He was spotting a real blush on his cheeks now. I wanted to have my wicked way with him immediately, and I was confident that he shared my sentiment. It took him an effort to push on. “And I couldn’t be sure how he would react. No worries, as I was willing to tell him an adventure tale as well, that he had vanished, but only to go treasure hunting. That he had abandoned him, but only because he had realized that he was a man enough to make it without him and that he, the son, who shared the same interest, would surely understand. That he wrote a letter to him to explain it all, but that it got lost. However, surprise, I had discovered it.”

“But there was no letter?” I was confused and yet, I sensed that there was something I should have put together sooner. 

“Of course, not, my dear boy. I forged it, Watson; I have seen the draft, so I knew the father’s handwriting. The rest was child’s play.”

“I knew it, Holmes!” I really did not. And Holmes probably knew it as well. Two fools in love, what a pair we made. “That is why you expected it! I knew something was odd that you have seen it but not informed me about it. Normally, you would do it to show how clever you are. *mimicking* Watson, what can you deduce from this envelope *mimicking* passable, but I hope that you would go deeper. For instance...”

He must really love me because the great Sherlock Holmes was smiling at me.

“Yes, I told him the love story, John. It was bittersweet because Jones knew that unlike the first tale, there was no possibility for his father to ever come back. He knew that he was alive, but would not see him again. To search for him – and considering their age, the chances are slim anyway – would endanger their freedom. I will not lie: for a moment, he wished for an alternative, that he was a victim and not a criminal in the eyes of the law, but in a way, he is an adventurer, also in the end, it was love that motivated him all the years to search for him. This was why I was almost certain that he would choose the truth. He continues his quest out of love, so he could face the truth; after all, he is his father’s son.”

_The soul of a person is just like a landscape, their depth as well as their potential darkness are only seen close up._ I did not know where I had heard or read that quote, or if I had made it up in my head myself. As Homes reminded me far too often: I am terribly romantic, and during our stolen hours at Sherrington Hall, I was drunk on my love. I had my fill of him, and I knew that I was thirsty for more. That he had lapped up all that I had given him, and spilled for me, and we were sated but hungry still. 

However, the clock was ticking and this was a place of my past and only a starting point of a brighter future, it had started in Sherrington Hall, in a way thirty years ago with another pair of lovers, and now, it was time for our journey.

As if reading my mind – which not even Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and the love of my life, was able – Holmes suggested, “let us smoke one last pipe, our work here is done. Perhaps we will reach the afternoon train to London. We will be home for dinner.”

***

**Sherrington, 1920**

In the beginning, I was unsure if it was not a purely selfish thing to drag my Holmes back here. Of course, Sherrington held a special place in both of our hearts as we might have been some fools in love for a very long time but we were not fooled: without the events in Dorset - or how Thomas Hardy would call it "Wessex," I became an admirer of his writing, in particular his poems about The Great War - we had maybe second guessed our perception of each other until the end. 

"John, you're still wondering why we ended up here?" 

My love looks fondly at me; even he could not hide his slight scolding out of his voice. It got deeper as the years passed, the smoking and London air and God-knows-what paying tribute. I mourned for the velvet voice as much as Holmes abhors the arthritis in his fingers that makes playing the violin a challenge. Alas, yet, we are alive and Holmes has even abandoned his seven-percent-solution for some years now, so I am content. We both are. 

"I had thought you had deduced it by now, old boy." His eyes were alight with mischief, resembling for a second the man Stamford had introduced to me half a century ago. A queer fellow, oh yes. "It's rather… elementary, is it not, John?"

As if it was yesterday or tomorrow, I played along, "for you, Holmes. However, a normal fellow like myself needs some explanation."

Holmes makes a show of exhaling loudly. He had not let go of his air of theatrics. At least, the walking over our furniture had stopped. No VR appeared at our walls either. Nowadays, he would be considered a decent lodger - if it was not for the love we shared since 1903. 

"John… You followed me all those years, I cherished it even not always in the open. Our work, no, mostly mine, was your priority. Even when I returned you forgave me and left your marital as well as your professional life almost immediately. And here, when I proposed a new level of intimacy, you opened up body and soul. You were and are my conductor of light and my Boswell. Once you called me the best and wisest man you had ever known - which I applied to you as well, do not scoff, I am certain - so it is only elementary to come here. At last, it should be your turn. You wanted to come back, and I could not be apart from you, therefore: we retired here. Elementary, my dear Watson."

***

**Sherrington, 2020**

"But why did he call it _The Winter Sea_?" Rosie asked. 

The Watson-Holmes-family had spent an afternoon reading the notes. It was a censored version, a demand by John Watson. Sherlock had agreed reluctantly but had demanded that when Rosie would be older she should read the complete tale. 

Their daughter had found the medallion in the garden while playing with Toby. Apparently, it had been hidden in some common fern, around the spot where Sherlock wants to set up the beehive. Together, they searched for the companion piece and found it behind the antique mirror.

Sherlock had wanted to examine it all first, but the storyteller gene and natural curiosity of his husband, as well as Rosie's puppy eyes had won. Soon the Watson-Holmes family gathered together in the living room, in front of the fireplace, tea and biscuits on the table nearby.

John had started to read aloud but it had not taken long until the men took turns. Rosie had been delighted. Whenever her fathers wanted to stop, to postpone it until the next day, she intervened. "Please," and as it was the magical word, rarely used in the household even in 2020, they complied. 

Naturally, the tale lured the adults in as well. For obvious reasons, John was more sympathetic towards his namesake. His Sherlock still claimed that love stories (except theirs, naturally) are above him. The mystery however, thrilled him. Of course, he observed the details and deduced the solution far earlier. Yet, even his gleaming eyes and tapping fingers showed his excitement of cracking the case, he kept his mouth shut. His daughter and husband should enjoy the tale, or at least to an extent. 

"Because it happened in winter at the sea, obviously." Sherlock said, not as harsh as towards the rare clients, mostly locals, who find Sherrington Hall not for the honey but for the additional help, but he cannot hide the fact that he wants to lecture her so that their daughter - the smartest girl in Dorset, probably England if you asked her fathers - would learn such easy deduction.

"No, Sherlock." Two faces, different stages of confusion showing, turn to John. A raised eyebrow, expressing "Do go on," in his silent Sherlockian way. "Yes, of course, that might fit but that would be simply too… ordinary. This account was written by John Watson. Surely, names do not mean that we share character traits; however, you have read it, Sherlock. This man is a romantic, he has this poetic language, even more than myself, and I have come up with already unconventional titles. No, _The Winter Sea_ has a deeper meaning."

Silence, and the impatient huff ignored. What Sherlock cannot articulate, his daughter did tenfold. "Amazing, Dad. Brilliant, is it not, Papa?" 

There was a rumbling, which might be interpreted as yes. 

"And what does it all mean?" It shows how much they changed as the great Sherlock Holmes can formulate the question so often uttered by the yarders or John himself. 

"The sea change, with every tide a different countryside is shaped. Sure, it is a small impact but it still exists. In Sherrington their life was changed, sure, it seemed little and never discovered by the outside but it shaped them irrevocably. John Watson is a storyteller, he speaks in metaphors. Just like winter, as he felt that dark feeling of no hope of love and the idea that it was too late, that their lives were ending without even have the golden years. However, the sea brought love back to Sherrington Hall, and they both were able to return to the autumn of their life in London and later, for retirement, in the metaphorical winter, they found a home here forever."

There is a glimmer in Sherlock Holmes' eyes, and when he met his husband's they held a promise of a reward in bed later. At the moment, a kiss must be sufficient. 

Sherlock Holmes fell in love all the years ago, steady and fast, hard and silent, starting with the very first "Amazing","Brilliant" and "That's fantastic". John Watson never stopped  surprising him, not since he pulled the trigger to kill the cabbie (and his reaction, Good God!), and today was no exception.

John Watson was like the sea, calm on the surface, as if in winter's sleep, but below, a whole new universe. 

He vowed to make love to him tonight. Probably, the letter will be found a special place on the mantlepiece by then. After all, their two loves should shine and should be seen. 

 

_To the holder of this letter, our congratulations._

_Finding it needs a considerable amount of reasoning and deductive skills. The work consumed our life, so we never produced an heir, but we picture you as a young person of good imagination. Any mysteries created by the mortal mind can be resolved and they will in time._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson_

 

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the end I decided against writing the the wedding ceremony. 'The Winter Sea' should be its very own story and not exist in the same universe as 'There is something about a soldier'. This story is more about legacy and how a storyteller has the choice (if not the chance) to write a soft epilogue, for and out of love. 
> 
> The letter at the end is an altered version of the iconic opener from 'The Adventure of Shirley Holmes', a Canadian TV series I watched when I was a teen. It was fitting as this story is all about memories, and yes, a sense of melancholia as we aren't young anymore, however, it's not winter yet and we have stories to tell that will nurture us through the years because it's storytelling that keeps you alive. 
> 
> Lastly, chapeau to everyone who writes pastiches professionally. As someone who's a fan of Sherlock Holmes for a quarter of a century, I assumed it to be easy to write a mystery, alas, I was mistaken. Yet thanks to all the wonderful comments I fell in love with it once more. 
> 
> Hopefully, I will see a few familiar faces for "Sanctuary" aka the Medieval Johnlock AU with guard!John and blacksmith!Sherlock in an alternative version of Chaucer's The Canterbury Tales - oh, and it has an air of BDSM...

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos are love. Comments are very welcome. Let's talk about idiots in love at the beach together ^^


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